For The Love Of Laundry

I don’t have a washer. I have a dryer but no washer. It makes me feel incomplete.

Dog barf on the bed? Gotta drive to town to wash it.

Goat jump up on my cleanish jeans and now they’re covered in dirty hoof prints and tomorrow is Sunday and I can’t go in dirty jeans? Better get in the car and go to the laundromat (in pajama pants no less. Small town’s finest right there).

Want to do something nice like wash the curtains in the living room because let’s face it there are cobwebs up there? Well forget about it! Because you don’t feel like driving to town and spending the money at the dang laundromat.

I never realized how much I loved my washing machine until we moved here.


Over a year of no washing machine. Over a year of either going to the laundromat and actually having to interact with people – I shudder to think – or go to my mom’s, pay her with a dozen eggs, do laundry there but end up wasting a large portion of the day since it’s just one load at a time. I have a perfectly good washer and dryer. It’s a stacked set even. Space saving, and it has an extra large capacity. And it’s pretty. And reminds me of days on the real farm. Where laundry was a blessing and I had a clothesline the length of an acre. I could wash the entire town’s clothes and hang them out on that bad boy!


Ok fine. So maybe not the exact length of an acre. That’s my equivalent of a big fish story. Just mine are about clotheslines. We exaggerate about what’s dearest to our hearts I guess. Mine just happens to be clotheslines.


So what’s the problem you ask? Water. Iron filled, orange water. When you’re trapped in the cycle of renting and there is quite literally no way to put money aside you take whatever bargain you can when it comes to owning your own home. At least that’s what my Hubby says. He doesn’t have to do laundry, or serve company dinner on brownish orange dishes. Or feel the horrible tinge of housewife embarrassment when said company asks to use the bathroom and then they see the iron stains on everything and I look like a failure. For all my natural talk I will admit that I hit that bathroom with the most powerful chemically engineered cleaner there is. It burns the finger prints right off my fingers, but dang it if it doesn’t work for a few minutes. We’ve had a specialist in who recommended a filter. Actually 3. 3 filters, and a pH balancer. We’re on the worst spring in the entire district. Also the most expensive. We just about fainted when he gave us an estimate.


So here I sit nibbling on fried eggs and toast, and procrastinating by writing this post. Because the laundry hamper is over flowing and I know where I have to go. I’m writing this post because someday I like to think that my laundromat days will be over, and my little hermit self can wash clothes discretely in her own home without strangers seeing her panties. I won’t have to sit there while old men ogle me. And I won’t have to just about die when my worst neighbour comes walking in and I’m now trapped with her. Oh hi! Please excuse me while I throw myself into this extra large dryer. I can look back at this post and laugh at what once was, and feel even more blessed that at that point in said future I will be able to use water from the tap. It will get better, right?

Send help. Or clean water. I’ll take either.



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