Laundry: A Sad Tale

I had a brilliant idea. I was going to be super-efficient and do laundry while cleaning my apartment so that by the time I started writing later this evening, my place would be sparkling and my to-do list would be significantly shorter.

No one told the dryer about my plans.

The machine ate my money. And didn't start. It let me choose my settings, the light turned on, but the start button was a dud. I pushed. I jiggled. I jostled. I may have prayed over it. I fed it more loonies. Nothing.

My sheets are hanging to dry in the shower. My socks are draped everywhere. My drying rack is overloaded by the weight of two full loads of wet clothing.

And I was so distracted by such a disruption that my casa-cleaning came to a halt halfway through. And the writing was mediocre at best. (Although I was quite smitten with the images of a Napa Valley affair and was temporarily distracted by researching a wine-country wedding at sunset. I have a lovely job.)

The laundromat down the street went out of business last month. My landlord is at the cottage. My decorating style is now "wet-laundry chic."

One day I will build a house. With my dream laundry room. That's all I want. I don't need a walk-in closet or a bathroom with a fireplace. Just laundry, glorious laundry.

Sigh.

I'm putting off going to bed because I don't want to trudge through the mess of damp fabric in my room. Nor do I want to wear wet pajamas.

Time to rewrite a lyric or two. Cue Bob Saget and friends running around San Francisco.

Whatever happened to predictability?
The milkman, the paperboy, evening laundry?

Is it pathetic fallacy when your wardrobe and the weather are in cahoots?

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