Ever since the dawn of time, men have had a problem with laundry. Lacking in their genetic make−up is the ability to mix furs, pelts and coloreds. They can beat a rock over the head of an elk − but are unable to beat the rock out of delicates.
Long ago in a cave far away, man felled an elk, skinned, tanned and hauled it home. It was good −− a great way, he decided, to get a Flemington Fur without paying a lot of shells. He was amazed that his little woman could put it all together and make that little bikini number with the cute fringes on the bra part. It might have been hard work to get that skin, but boy, was it sure worth it to see her on the cover of Cave Illustrated.
However, there came a time that the little number got soiled. Sure, it was tough and lasted a long time, but all that foraging, cooking and walking in the forest had its toll.
So when washing day came, the man tried to clean it. He put all the clothes in the river and began beating the dirt out of them. He soon realized that the fur matted, the colors ran and his loincloth shrank two sizes. Maybe it was too much elk stew, but they seemed only to shrink when he washed. The chore of laundry fell to the woman (what else is new?), After all, she had a way with fur.
Now, there are some men whose genetic make−up allows them to wash laundry like nobody’s business. Unfortunately, my husband Bob is not one of them.
Bob has been known to mix what should never be mixed. As a result, I have come to love my washed−out shirts and splotched undies. When Bri was very little she liked to have a tube of lipstick in her pocket. She didn’t wear it, she just liked to have it. Since I usually did the laundry, I never thought to instruct Bob to check those little pockets. Lo and behold, one night while I was at work he decided to help out and put up a wash. Not knowing about the lipstick thing, he just put all the clothes into one big wash and let it rip. Unfortunately, he put them in the dryer the same way.
When he went to retrieve his uniform clothes, the shout that was heard around the house was heard up and down the block, too. There, all over his shirts and pants, were big red blotches of baked−in, melted lipstick. I managed to get some of the stains out with a little rock beating, but to this day, he still has one shirt with a reminder stain.
Time has passed and Bri no longer keeps lipstick in her pocket. Bob has learned to very carefully check for the dreaded tube, But from time to time he still mixes what shouldn’t be mixed.
This past weekend he helped with the wash. When I went to move the clothes from the washer to the dryer, I discovered that he had mixed big furry, linty, turkish towels, a linty quilted bag and my good blouses.
Not for nuthin’, but Bob really needs to stick to hitting the elk over the head with a rock. JDelBuono@cnglocal.com
