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The Laundry

Our First Meeting

Me: “B, this is a fantastic washing machine.”

B: “Thank you!”

I stand flat footed in front of the washer. I reach inside the washing machine down to the bottom.

Me: “Oh dear. I can’t reach it. I can’t reach the bottom. My arms aren’t long enough.”

B: “Uh oh.”

Silently, I stare at B.  B stares at me.

B: “What are you going to do?”

Me: “This!”

I walk back to the kitchen counter, (he watches with anticipation) I take a running start and leap. I clear the edge and successfully fly over the side of the top of the washer landing face down at a 90 degree angle, feet now dangling mid-air as I stretch as hard and as long as I can to reach the bottom.

“Wait, wait, wait, B are you still there? I got it, I got it. The tip of my finger got it. Don’t worry about it. We’re good…” my voice echoing from the floor of the washing machine.

Envious are you?

I begin to pull a load of clothes out of the dryer.

“Why does all of the laundry have bright green streaks on it?”

I pull it all out faster and faster as if it’s going to fly away at any moment. My heart begins to pound and my breathing moves into hyperventilating mode.

Green, green and more green, everywhere, everything, green.

I see a child-sized pair of khaki’s in the back. I snatch them forward and look down towards the front pocket. There is heavy-duty evidence that this was where the problem began. I reach in to the pocket. A green crayon.

The children come in from playing outside.

“Listen guys, we all need a little more green in our lives, okay? So don’t be complaining that you must now wear clothes with a little green splatter paint. And also, green is the color of envy. Everyone will envy these clothes and you while wearing these glorious things. Bet on it.”


The Black Sweater

I’m folding all the laundry in the living room.

Me: “I am totally ahead of the game this week. I am caught up on cleaning. I am caught up on dishes. I am caught up on life.”

I see the arm of a black sweater reaching up towards me from the bottom of the pile.

It is staring at me. I freeze. The new wife in me begins to feel the onset of panic.

No, it couldn’t be. Is it? Please, Lord, please no. Not that one. I look closer but without any movement. I’m eyeing it. Very still like. That arm. It seems to look longer than a child’s arm. But no, please, no. If I wish it away, it will go away. I close my eyes. My heart races. I pray again. I pull it up just a tad, hoping to see a tiny-sized piece of clothing appear. As it emerged up out of the mound, it actually began pushing the other clothes aside out of it's way, as if it was proud to be rising to the top in all it’s beauty and splendor. It even had a small smirk on it’s face as I drew up the last corner.

There it was. Why hello, you little jerk.

Byron’s non-washable, fancy shmancy, only bought online, one of a kind, can never find another one in all the world, not even in Paris, sweater.

I shall never forgive that little black piece of merino.

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