Laundry Day

I sat in the bathtub, the water lapping at my waist. I’m not sure how long I’d been there; the bar of soap in my hand was softening to nothing, and the water felt cold on my skin. I blinked several times, finally snapping out of the endless loop of instant replay from this morning. 

I should have said something. I should have said anything. Anything would have been better than walking away when Clarissa tore into me. But I froze up and my mouth wouldn’t work, my brain wouldn’t work, and I’ve been rehashing it ever since. 
It wasn’t even a good insult; she laughed and me for wearing the same pants I wore to school yesterday. I wear the same pants every day, but nobody’s ever said anything before. They probably didn’t notice, by Clarissa needed someone to knock down a peg. 

Rehash, rehash, rehash. I still don’t know what I could have said. I can’t come up with anything that makes sense. 

So I sit here in the bathtub, washing my pants like I do every other night. 

Only this night I seem to have ruined the soap. 

The Reluctant Laundress

Alison did not want to get out of bed. I’m sure you can relate. We all have days like that–when the only errands to be done seem tedious and/or unpleasant.

Her to-do list was relatively short today: return some library books and pick up something to cook for dinner. In theory, she could let it all go and do it tomorrow, but then she’d incur another quarter in late fees and be stuck eating dry cereal again. 

Alison was not generally a fan of dry cereal. Milk was a necessity in her book; it softened the cereal up so she didn’t feel like she was eating grit. She didn’t like grit.

She moaned and covered her face with a pillow, then let her arms flop back onto the bed. She suddenly realized that there was, in fact, one more thing that had to be done today. 


Alison groaned. The only choir she hated more than laundry was getting the oil changed in her car, because of course, mechanics always assumed that since she was a girl she was a mechanical idiot. She actually did know how to change her own oil, but it was worth the extra few dollars to have someone else do it.

She threw the pillows from her face to the floor and slid off the bed feet first. After using the bathroom and brushing her hair and teeth, she paused, half-dressed, and grinned. 

“I have nothing to do tomorrow!” she cheered. “Laundry can wait!”

From TBP Word Association #3.

More Freaking Ants

Yesterday we had a minor infestation at the bottom of the back door. Ian discovered, I bagged up the sheet that was there and sprayed. Done. No big deal, but seriously annoying after Sunday’s debacle.

We picked up another can of spray.

This morning, after Ian left for work, I started rewashing our regular comforters. The ants are out of them, they just still smell a little off, I’m guessing from all the formic acid from the bazillions of ants that died in them in the washer and dryer.

So when I went to finally organize my desk, of course the washer wasn’t done with its cycle yet when I found another freaking hornet’s nest of ants. Am I mixing metaphors? I’m addled, as my stepdad would say.

Those dirty SOBs!! I had to bag up a quilt and my bathrobe, and throw a big frame and my lamp outside as well, not to mention the basket of folded needs-to-be-put-away laundry that will now be washed, dried, and folded yet again.

I want to be Ripley with a flamethrower just to make sure they’re all dead. Ugh!!

And now, as I sit on the couch writing this, Amarillo is pawing at the wheel well of Abby’s ride-on toy, so who knows what is lurking in there. Maybe she just lost a ponytail holder. Fingers crossed!

At least I can now sort the multitudes of frames and mats we’ve been amassing from art store dumpster diving and yard sale leftovers. Ian found me a box of six matching frames, so that’s going to be a fantastic set once I get inspired, I can’t wait!

Amarillo got it–it’s just a fuzzball. Whew!