Washing Machine.... or Time Machine???

I am probably a douchebag.    After an all-out, Mr. Toad-like, no-holds-barred mad spree at the local consignment shop, I loaded up a full load of colored clothing into my parents' front-loading LE washer.   Cycle finished, and I put it in the dryer.    Now, in a rare-ish moment of douchebaggery, I put two white tops into the washer, set it to 'gentle', and 'low-soil', where it was supposed to be done in 28 minutes.     So yes.   I am, in fact, running an entire washload, for two pieces of clothing.    Because I want to wear one of the tops tomorrow, and everything that is left for whites, has Boston Terrier hair all over it.    Washing clothes with dog-towels sort of makes the washing pointless.

You can blame me for global warming if you like, but Boston Terrier hair = super-itchy me.

So.   When I went to use the dryer, I found it already occupied with a full load of damp towels and clothing belonging to my parents.   So I re-ran the dryer.    And waited.   And waited.   And finally I pulled everything out to fold it....

I always do that when I empty a dryer and put my stuff in.   It always made me feel like less of a douchebag in college, when I wanted the dryer, but someone had left their stuff in it.    (For some reason, I am not quite fully able to accept that the greater part of the douchebaggery could and should be assigned to the person who is tying up a perfectly good dryer with laundry that is already finished.   Obviously my parents are exempt from this, as it is their house, and their dryer.)

When I unloaded the dryer... there was 18 minutes left on those two tops.    I folded all the dry clothes, sorted them, re-loaded them into the laundry basket put it on the kitchen table (so that the aforementioned Boston Terriers cannot make themselves a clean, freshly-warmed bed of finished laundry), poured myself a glass of water, took a benadryl (did I mention Boston Terrier hair?), and checked on the washing machine.

17 minutes left.

Clearly this early-generation front-loading LE washer knows a few tricks about space-time, important information that was not conveyed to later models, including JC's.   

And speaking of time...  I really do believe that - despite how closely I resemble both of my parents - that I was, in fact, switched at birth.    Or else I am a pod-person, and the original me was abducted and cloned by aliens, and I am, in fact, the replacement me.

I say this, because I, the person who adores beautiful clothing and lovely underpinnings, just folded my parents' underwear, and I never saw anything more pitiful.    The whites were pinky-grey and the colors looked like the colors FLDS women wear.    Sad, overstretched elastic.    I think the homeless people on Ellis Street would turn their nose up at these and say 'no thanks, I'll just keep going commando'.   And I shall not speak of the socks, except to say this:  if socks are supposed to protect your heels from blisters, and keep your toes warm, these have failed grandly on both counts.

Captain von Trapp: It's the dress. You'll have to put on another one before you meet the children.

Maria: But I don't have another one. When we entered the abbey our worldly clothes were given to the poor.

Captain von Trapp: What about this one?  

Maria: The poor didn't want this one. 

I have taken note of sizes, and when I get back to the ATL, I am going to do some shopping and mailing.  I cannot let my parents run amok in boxcar-hobo underpinnings.


Cee at: July 17, 2013 at 5:17 AM said...

If having parents who wear sad, frumpy underwear is enough to make a case for having been switched at birth, then I certainly was - my underwear drawer is filled with nothing but lace; my mom's, nothing but Fruit of the Loom!

star whites at: March 12, 2014 at 1:54 AM said...

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