In Which I Narrowly Avoid Death By Laundry

Listen closely.  Hear those gentle thumping and swishing sounds?  That's the glorious noise an actual working washing machine makes after it's been put back together.  That's right: after nine days the part we needed came in the mail, Jeremy put things back together, and so we can finally wash our clothes again.  And the machine doesn't dump water all over our floor or anything!

I never thought I would be so excited about being able to do laundry.

Seriously, laundry is my least favorite chore in the entire universe, even though Connor still thinks me folding anything larger than a hand towel is hilarious.  It just seems so completely pointless, as approximately eight seconds after I take the laundry out of the dryer it somehow manages to become completely covered in cat hair, whether or not the cats are anywhere in the vicinity.  Cricket usually moseys on over anyway once I've started folding to give the clothes an inspection just to make sure they're thoroughly coated, and also to defend us from the dreaded Static Snakes that lurk in the innocent looking pile.  So really I don't know why I bother.



Crazy cat.

Anyway, after almost a week and a half of not doing laundry, I have changed my mind and decided that laundry is my favorite chore in the universe, and also one of the most important.  You know why?  Roller derby, that's why. 

Every once in a while I mention going to practice, or a bout or whatever on here, but I don't usually talk about it every day so you all probably don't realize just how much skating I do in any given week.  The short answer: a lot.  I do a whole lot of skating, both at regular practices and on my own.  And know what else I do a lot of?  Sweating, that's what.  Yes, not only do I have super fair skin that turns beet red whenever I exercise for more than five minutes so I look like I am going to keel over at any given moment-- making for gloriously attractive Derby Action Photos-- but I also sweat way, way more than is proper for a woman raised in the south to ever admit to in public.  No, really.  I can usually wring out my shirts by the end of the night. 

Ew.  I'm sure you all really wanted to know that.  It totally makes me wonder how the heck I ended up with a kid with no sweat glands.  Don't think that means he produces less laundry, though; he makes up for his lack of sweating by drooling all over everything.  No doubt he just wants to do his part to make sure I fold as many hilarious things as possible.

Yeah.  So anyway, so after a solid week of unwashed derby gear along with Jeremy's daily weight lifting clothes all sitting in the hamper, my bedroom is starting to lose any resemblance to a romantic adult retreat.  Instead, the room is rather disturbingly beginning to channel a feel that I can only call "eau de high school boys' locker room." 

This is not exactly a mood setter, if you know what I mean. 

So I'm extremely glad that I have my washing machine back now and don't have to haul that entire nine days worth of, um, fragrant clothing down to the laundry mat, which I was either going to have to do soon or otherwise start making daily trips to the mall in my pajamas in order to buy a clean outfit for the day.  Especially since I was clean out of sports bras, and while I won't hesitate to wear a pair of, say, blue jeans twice in a week, wearing the same sports bra would be really, really gross.  It might improve my derby game because no one would be able to get within ten feet of me without passing out, but I'm pretty sure I'd be unconscious too so I wouldn't really be able to take advantage of that.

All the people down at the laundry mat probably should be really relieved that I'm not hauling our clothes down there too.  Not that I'm entirely sure I would have made it there; in the close confines of the car the fumes would probably have overwhelmed me before I even left the driveway.  Goodness knows what Jeremy would have put in my obituary if I succumbed to Death By Laundry. 

At any rate, Jer gets Major Brownie Points for fixing the washing machine all by himself, thereby postponing the writing of my obituary for what will hopefully be quite some time.  Not that I should really be worried about what Jer would put in my obituary anyway, as it will no doubt be awesome whatever my cause of death.  My guess is that he will probably work in velociraptors somewhere. 

Also maybe chickens.  Because chickens are awesome.

~Jess