Today we did domestic things that require us to stay in our room all day. Mainly, it gave Diane ample opportunity to do our laundry while watched a couple of NFL playoff games. I offered to help but she’s very adamant that I have absolutely nothing to with laundry unless it’s to fetch a basket for her. I may have touched on this subject previously, but it bears repeating.

Oh, OK, I’ll tell you why …

Once upon a long time ago, during the early years of my training to be a proper husband, there was a time when I was trusted to help with laundry. Typically, I was never alone so any difficulties I might encounter were quickly rectified by my Diane. Things were good.

One day, however, when Diane was off cavorting with her friends I was left alone with nothing to do. She didn’t leave me a list. I looked everywhere but it just could not be found. So, I ventured in a direction less traveled in our marriage. I made a decision on my own. I decided I was going to do wash the clothes.

I’d seen her do this task many times and felt sure I could manage OK. The main rule, I quickly remembered, was to never mix dark and white clothes so I began by sorting. It was an easy task because we never had much laundry to do in our early months. But, a quick search of our home turned up enough items to make the effort worth while.

Darks and Whites. Two piles. No where in my memory banks did I detect a need to further sort by clothing type. Just by color. I had two piles and chose to wash the whites first. It was mostly underwear and a few pairs of socks and I figured if I made a mistake, not a lot would be lost.

I started the washer, knowing she like to use hot water to ensure all the bugs and germs were properly dealt with, then gently introduced each item separately into the rising water. When done I closed the lid, noted the time, and retired to our drawing room which was really our living room that had about six books laying about in a haphazard manner, and ash trays by each of them. We smoked then and it was OK because not enough people had perished to make it a problem.

As the washer washed, I selected one of our six books and began reading but the rhythmic sound of the washer swishing water around quickly lulled my senses, causing me to drift into a pleasant slumber. There was no dreaming that I can recall, just serene quiet which was ended abruptly when the washer signaled the end of it’s process with a profoundly annoying BUZZ!.

I jumped to my feet and rushed to see what was the matter but had, on the short trip to the laundry room, discerned that there really was no problem. It was just finished.

Removing the freshly washed clothing, I took one piece at a time, shook out the wrinkles as best I could, and placed it into the dryer. It was done quickly. This was a point in time where dryer sheets were unheard of so I didn’t have to do that. Fabric softener was included in the washing process. So, I didn’t have to find the dryer sheets because there were none.

I set the dryer to run for 30 minutes. There were no other buttons to complicate the drying process. Just set the timer and push the button to make it run. Pretty simple.

I used the same process to load the dark clothes into the washer that I used for the whites. I checked each item for pockets, removing forgotten treasures (gum, kleenex, q-tips, and sometimes loose change). This step was omitted with the whites because none of our underwear had pockets and I’m pretty sure any of the white clothes that did were empty. As this reality crossed my mind my eyes automatically searched out the dryer that was busily tumbling those white clothes in an atmosphere that could easily melt a stick of gum. Figuring it was already too late to fix it, I continued with the dark clothes with much greater care.

Once the washer was properly full, the water was filling, the dryer tumbling, and everything in order, I went back to the drawing room to was for the next signal that something needed to be done.

The dryer won the race, sounding its alarm for attention. I responded, gathering the warm dry clothing into my arms and carried them to my chair in the drawing room. I like hugging warm clothing to my bodice. It’s very comforting. I held them until the heat dissipated then began the folding process.

Just as I joined and folded the last pair of socks, the washer signaled its plea for attention. Great timing, right?

I took all the newly folded whites to the bedroom and placed them tenderly on Diane’s bed because the majority of the white were hers. She changes her underwear way more often than I do. We’ve discussed this over the years and I still don’t know why she can’t observe the 4-day rule for underwear like I do. It’s something to do with proper hygiene, I think.

Once the folded clothes were delivered to their proper place for inspection, I returned to the washer just as it was spinning to a stop to complete the cycle.

Pulling each piece out and shaking it out before delivering it to the dryer is required (by me), same as the white clothing. The dark clothes include jeans, socks, some special underwear, shirts, and sweaters. I’d seen Diane lay some of her sweaters out on a towel, on the table, but all the table was full of stuff so there was no room. So, I figured it would be OK as long as I kept the heat down A little. So that’s what I did. Low temp, long time.

Back in the drawing room I made myself comfortable and closed my eyes for a bit and was startled when I heard the door slam when Diane returned home. Apparently I had snoozed right through the dryer’s buzzer, or it had failed for some reason. It didn’t matter because the damage was done. My goal was to have the laundry done before Diane got home. She noticed that I’d done it and told me to just stay away and she’d finish it. It wasn’t a directive delivered in a mean way, just an honest order to help me.

So I remained in my chair and let her finish. It was OK for a while then I heard the dreaded “JEROLDBRADLEYCATE! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”

Startled as I was hearing my entire name delivered in all capital letters as only she an do, my immediate response was, “The laundry?” I readily admit that I should have taken at least a few seconds to THINK before engaging my mouth, but that’s not one of my strong suits.

I was startled once again when she entered the drawing room holding a fishing net for some reason. I was pretty sure that I hadn’t seen it in the laundry I washed or dried, so presumed it must have been something she’d purchased. That caused me to pause and wonder what in the world she was going to do with a fishing net.

She held it up, dangling it from her right hand forefinger. I was still confused so asked, “What did you buy that for?” Looking back on this moment made me realize it was another point in time where I should have paused for a few seconds to compose an answer.

“Well,” she replied, “when I bought it last year it was a very nice sweater.”

“What happened to it?”

“You happened to it!”

Still not understanding what was going on I picked up my theoretical shovel and said, “I don’t know what you mean. What did I do?”

It was at this point in time where I learned what chenille is and the danger, in many ways, associated with drying anything made with this new (to me) material, in a dryer. “So,” I thought, “that was the sweater I remember her laying on a towel,” and the fishing net hanging from her finger was the obvious reason why.

At this point she continued my education by pulling the dryer lint screen from behind her back to show me where her sweater had gone. It was now a thick layer of colorful former sweater clinging to the screen.

So, now I know what happens to chenille sweaters when you dry them in a dryer. Perhaps you’ll be happy to know that this is one lesson I’ve never forgotten, and why I’m NOT allowed to do our laundry.

That’s about it.

To properly end this I’m compelled to share one more photo I took at the Polynesian Cultural Center.

This bug resides inside Goo’s Plantation in the market place. It’s not for sale.