November 6, 2010
The car is nestled in its coveted driveway spot.
But. . .
. . .the dryer door is refusing to close.
At this moment, Stephen has held it shut with a broom handle and a bottle of bleach.
Ingenious.
I love my dryer.
Or, rather, I love having a dryer.
I abhor actually using the dryer which is the reason we still have it.
Hanging laundry on the line has extended the life of our dryer (and maintained the hydro bill to an almost reasonable level).
My sanity hangs from gossamer threads because I hang laundry.
Sadly, the washer that accompanied the dryer is no longer with us.
It was replaced a couple of years ago.
Because there was no way I wash washing laundry outside, by hand, to spare the washer.
Besides, hanging my granny panties, Stephen's red leather man thongs, Keith's weed loving logoed shirts, and Em's never ending parade of multi colored sockettes bearing the label "Janet Clarke" is one thing.
Cleaning all the clothing in this house in a tin wash tub, with a wooden washer dohickey and a bar of lye soap is an experience I'd rather not have, thank you very much.
This new wrinkle in the already overly corrugagted fabric of our lives was certainly unexpected.
Unwanted.
Unnecessary.
At least we can close the dryer.
What we close it with will depend upon whatever we can get our hands on at the time.
Broom handles.
Bleach.
Chaining and padlocking Stephen to the front of the dryer, Goblet affixed to his chest with a smaller, but matching set of chains.
Because there is no reason to not match while working together to ensure my granny panties are fresh and dry.
When I left my first husband, I took all the kid's things, some of my things, and the washer and dryer.
I waited a long time for my own washer and dryer.
Prior to my own laundry machines, laundry was done at my former mother-in-law's house.
Once a week, usually on a Sunday, we'd collect up all the dirty laundry, and with two small children there was a lot of dirty laundry, and off we'd go.
And because I was environmentally conscious even then, when the kids were just babies, I used cloth diapers.
The pail of cloth diapers was always the first thing in the house.
We had our dirty diaper dispensation down to a science.
In the driveway of my in laws, we'd open the car, kids still buckled inside their car seats, and I'd hand the bucket to my father-in-law, who'd hand it to my ex husband, who'd hand it to his mother, who would then make the mad dash to the basement to unload the stinky, stewed mess into the washer, slam it shut, rush out of the basement, dashing upstairs to put the putrid pail outside to air out.
After a week of holding pee soaked and poop stained cloth diaper, the diaper pail was pungent.
Rank.
Fetid.
Loathsome.
Steaming in its putrescence.
We would drive with the car windows down when the weather was nice.
And suffer amid the noxious foulness when it wasn't.
The kids don't seem to have suffered any long term effects from exposure to the malodour.
Or at least that's what I keep telling myself.
After a month or more of suffering with sarcoptic hounds, we were able to have a sorely needed visit with Annette, the-best-dog-trainer-in-the-world (http://www.barkbusters.ca/).
Not only does Annette train us, with all her skills and knowledge, to the best of her abilities, in spite of the stubbornness of one member of Team Clarke-Pidwysocky, therefore any and all failures are the result of said stubborn member and not Annette. . .
. . .she is just plain wonderful to talk with.
I LOVE it when Annette comes over.
And not seeing her for several weeks was very stressful for me.
So her return this morning should have occured amid a wash of confetti with "Hail to the Chief" piping from our stereo speakers.
Instead of me standing in the living room trying to make it look like we hadn't regressed while in the throes of medicated, mangy canines, while Stephen stood on the bottom stair, disheveled and angry because I wouldn't let him sit at the kitchen table in his pjs, manning the front door until Frankie stopped baring his teeth.
Separating that man from his pajamas is becoming a significant issue.
I may have to do something about that.
One issue with Frankie, one of his MANY issues, is letting people in the house.
Once you're in here, he's fine.
And consistency is the key.
Consistency and balance.
The bane of my existence.
And carbs. Chocolate. Sugar. Fat. Preservatives.
Prior to our mange-enforced-Annette-hiatus, she could come to the door, and Frank would be fine.
No bared teeth.
No growling.
But, he seems to have a short people memory, so her arrival this morning didn't inspire the here-comes-the-lady-with-the-treats response she usually gets from Frank.
So we started at the beginning, again.
Calming him down.
Making him sit.
Until we felt it was safe for her to come in.
Once he caught her scent, all was well in the frantic, frenetic world of Frankie.
For the rest of the visit, he was fine.
Happy.
Thrilled she had returned.
I think one of the best things about Annette is that she doesn't come in with a TO DO list.
She asks for a CAN DO list.
What can you do, in the month of November, when the term is starting its descent into final papers and final exams, and you're surrounded by tottering, teetering piles of papers that must be marked and never seem to get marked in spite of my best planning efforts, while raising children, chauffering, managing malicious applicances and capricious cars, and equally capricious aging parents. . .
I like that.
Our CAN DO list this month is short.
Hinder the hot spots.
Meaning, keep Frankie was blowing blood vessels every time someone walks by, or pulls into our driveway.
Prevent him from leaping through closed doors when a leaf has the audacity to blow in front of the neighbours yard.
Anticipate his arbitrary actions when a feline or canine neighbour passes within 100 meters of our house.
And train Stephen to not fear the harness.
Frankie will allow it. He may not like it, but that is neither here nor there.
After all, its not like the harness is for Stephen.
Although that may be an interesting, and entertaining, possibility. . . .
Title Lyric: Wishy Washy Washer Woman, artist unknown
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