Laundry is a no-brainer. Yesterday I did it with truly no brain at all and we’ll see why.
When I sensed Mom’s wash was done, I opened the lid and moved everything to the dryer. But it felt funny, a little slippery. A little off.
All sorts of warning sirens went off in my head, but I ignored every last one of them and put the load in the dryer anyway. Then I immediately put my own laundry in the washer, poured in some liquid detergent, closed the lid, pressed the start button and nothing happened.
Why? Because evidently Mom’s cycle hadn’t finished yet. The knob was still on “Rinse.” Dumbass.
This is an issue now, of course, because I realize my mother’s laundry never got rinsed or spun, and now it’s in the dryer, tumbling in its own soapy residue. Aaaaand, now my own laundry is sitting in the washer soaked with detergent.
Here’s where you would think I’d just wash my own load since it’s already in there. But no. I inexplicably chose to remove it – dripping with detergent – and dump it in an oozy pile on the floor and put Mom’s back in for a second cycle.
A second cycle because my washing machine is harder to understand than the Higgs boson particle. I cannot get it restarted where it left off. I can only start it all over again.
Whatever. Second cycle. Mom’s clothes are gonna be super clean now.
Another half an hour later, hers is done. My drippy load goes in. Yea! We’re making progress.
When Mom’s clothes are finished in the dryer and I start unloading, that’s when I hear it.
Yes, I know it’s just a button, but sewing for me might as well be open heart surgery. I’ll strain my back and neck from hunching over so long and there will likely be blood.
Swear to God, my first thought was to somehow staple the button back on. Shouldn’t there be a device for that? If there is, I don’t have one, and so begins the blind-as-a-bat, gorilla fingers part of the show.
I assemble my little sewing kit, the pathetic kind you get at a dollar store, on the kitchen counter.
My cat Lucky catches wind of this, sees all the thread and he’s like “Awesome! I’m getting string? Are we having a string party?”
No, we are not having a string party, now GET DOWN! He does not get down; instead, he starts purring because he’s thinking the circus came to town and this is going to be fun.
It is not fun. There’s no way in hell I’m threading this needle without the help of that wiry diamond-shaped thingamabob you put through the eye of the needle, and then put the thread through that.
This goes fairly well, except now Lucky’s in bat-the-string mode and so I have to move the operation to the dimly-lit laundry room, which is so helpful for open heart, you know.
There, I begin a process whereby I totally miss threading around the bracket thingy on the back of the button and instead do nothing but make holes in the blouse as the button eludes me and falls off to the side. Bloop.
Sew, sew, sew. Bloop.
I stab myself several times. I curse a little.
This process goes on with enough successes that I finally have the button attached, but with a giant blob of unnecessary thread on the other side of the button.
But you know what? It’s lined up perfectly and fits through the button hole!
I’m ecstatic that I’ve finally completed this weekend laundry project, hang the blouse on a hanger, button the top button and marvel at my achievement.
Ahhh, so pretty! So functional! A masterpiece, really.
A second button falls off and I consider my choices:
1. Kill myself. 2. Realize that it’s the bottommost button on the blouse, and does my mother really need that one? 3. Throw the blouse away and buy a new one.
Reluctantly, I get crackin’ on the second button, going through all the same traumas as the first. Swearing, stabbing and sulking until we achieve sewn-on, locked-down buttony goodness.
I hope my sisters are reading this. Flip a coin, ladies. One of you is getting Mom’s laundry next week.Stumble it!