Sadly, last night our washing machine broke. My husband is pretty sure he can fix it, just like he's pretty sure he can figure out how to use the pottery wheel and rewire the satellite. But he's a busy guy, so I know it's going to be at least the weekend before that machine can get looked at. Now, we're a family that likes to pretend we could get along without modern conveniences, and, with a family of five, you can't exactly wait on the laundry. So here's how I spent my morning: I filled the bathtub with hot, soapy detergent and water, then put an approximate load of laundry into the bubbles. Then I agitated, like my faithless washing machine would do. I agitated and agitated, then I called the kids over. We had a lot of fun, that first time. Then I hand-scrubbed socks, and rinsed... and rinsed, and rinsed. Then I wrung the clothes out as best I could, and dripped them over to the faithful dryer, and threw them in. Then I went back to the tub and started another batch of clothes. I let those soak until the dryer got done, and went and did dishes. When I checked the dryer a long time later, the clothes were still soaking wet. Grrr. So I pulled out the heavy stuff, draped it around the house, cleaned the lint guard and threw the clothes back in. They dried in an appropriate amount of time, and then I was back at the tub, agitating, rinsing, then dripping the clothes back to the dryer. This time I wrung them out much better. I did three loads of laundry this way, people. I'm afraid of getting muscular, manlike hands already, my arms have reached muscle fatigue, and we have all redefined "dirty." Slept in your pajamas? They're not dirty. Get 'em outta the hamper. In fact, I was making cookies (since today now seems to be domesticity day) and I heard my daughter spill something. Her older sister said, "Get a towel," and I yelled,"A paper towel!" Yikes.
So the clothes thing is going okay, and they're all folded neatly into everyone's pile, to be taken care of. My husband is going to come downstairs, and I am going to show him my accomplishment. I'm nearly as proud as if I'd knit socks. I can hear him now, praising me, thinking how cool I am to have gotten the laundry done. And then I realize that, yes, I got it done, with no help from the washer. In fact, I had become the washer. And as long as I was the washer, and working fine, the other washer was going to go on the backburner of things to do. So now I'm on strike, and will get back to my knitting.
Thrummed mittens, nearly done:
Husband's sweater, moving nicely:
If the dryer breaks, I'm outta here.
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