Speaking of Washing Machines

After I wrote that post about my anti-clothes folding dilemma the other day, I remembered that was not the first time I had posted about laundry (Is my life really this lame? Yes. Yes it is). I searched through the archives and found the following post. It was originally posted in December 2007. I know re-posting old posts is a cop-out, but it's almost midnight. Plus it sorta made my night. Enjoy:

Here's to You Washing Machine

Flu season has struck with a vengeance. I have lost count of the number of puke/poop covered clothes/bed sheets/towels I have jammed into my trusty old washing machine in the past week, but I bet if you ask our washing machine she would know (I refer to her as a "she" because to me she has a maternal aura about her). And if that reliable piece of metal could talk, oh the loads of secrets she could share (pun intended).

Purchased used with $200 of hard earned Red Lobster tip money, we found her about six years ago in a newspaper classified. Although fully functional when we bought her, her previous owner had tossed her out into the garage where months of dust and grime began to hide the shiny, hardworking machine she knew she was meant to be. When we brought her home I began the restoration process. I dusted and scrubbed and shined and polished her back to her former self, and for that she has repaid me with years of loyal, uninterrupted service.

She has been hauled, and not gracefully I might add, to three different houses; never complaining about the dents and dings sustained along the way. And she sat quietly by as she watched our lives evolve through loads of laundry.

They began small, dirty and random. Days hiking through the wilderness and climbing mountain tops lead to some smelly socks and rarely changed underwear (I'll pause momentarily while you cringe). Mixed in with the assorted outdoor wear was a server apron or two, and occasionally the sheets from our makeshift futon (and the lack of regularity would make Martha Stewart cringe).

As the years past, the futon sheets became Queen-size sheets that became King-size sheets with a side of crib sheets. The hiking shorts were replaced with workout clothes that rarely saw sweat because they rarely saw the inside of a gym. The server aprons gave way to crisp blue uniforms and coordinating dress suits. And new loads of onesies and spit-up riddled pajamas were added to the mix.

Oh yes, she could weave you the story of our lives if she could talk. And if you got her talking, perhaps she would inadvertently blab the washing machine's most tightly guarded secret: the exact coordinates of the Land of Mismatched Socks. But in all honesty, after years of experimenting with bleach and testing new detergents, spinning in circles and endlessly churning, I doubt either of those things would be her chosen first words. I bet she would impart years of washing machine wisdom.

She would tell you that 9 times out of 10, disasters can be avoided by simply reading the directions, the tag variety in her case (fluffy pillows, dry clean only attire and a lone climbing harness would thank her). She would probably tell you that even though hers boast names like Shout, Tide and Bounce, she still gets by with a little help from her friends. And finally, she would tell you that regardless of how many different methods you use, that grass stain is never coming out. But what defines you is how you choose to deal with said grass-stain, or the now-pink white blouse or the accidentally bleached designer jeans. You can have grass-stained pants and be happy, or you can have grass-stained pants and be angry. Either way, at the end of the day, you still have grass-stained pants.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to go stuff another load of my life into my wise washing machine.