I have great big plans for the next few days and so far, I haven’t done any of it other than get the rest of To Live Forever scheduled to post (that’s on Sundays, Cardiogirl. I’m making you wait.).
I had to do my own laundry yesterday. I’m no longer accustomed to such menial work – I have a Washer-Woman, you know.
It’s true – I’m one of those spoiled people who hire “help”. How do you like me now?
I have (had) an apartment-sized washer and dryer that my father bought for my use in 2002. I was playing proud that year, though, and I refused to accept his gift, so he told me he’d bought them for the camp on Cockburn Island, but that he couldn’t barge them over ’til the following summer… so would I please store them for him?
“…and run that washer through a cycle a couple of times a week, would you? I don’t want the hoses to dry out and crack on me.”
In spite of running it through a cycle a lot more often than a couple of times a week over the last seven or eight years, the hoses finally dried out and cracked, leaking water out the bottom of the washer, rendering us washerless.
Ruby’s grandson, Greg, took all the seats out of the Prissy-Van and put them in Ruby’s garage. Then he helped me carry the washer down two flights of stairs and load it in the van, followed by the dryer. I figured, since it was likely packed tightly with eight years of lint, the repair guy might vacuum it out for me at the same time he fixed the washer.
The Unfixable Washer.
So I was going to the laundromat every two weeks for awhile there, until one of the attendants asked me how much I was paying every month to do my laundry.
“I don’t know… between forty and fifty bucks, depending on whether or not The Freak Cat gets mad at The Evil Hypnotist and pees on her bed.. why?”
“For thirty a month, I’ll do all your stuff at my place. Drop it off whenever you want it done.”
Well, HELL! There’s a deal and a half, if ever I was dealt one. So I now have a Washer-Woman who washes, dries and folds every two weeks for me, and hasn’t bitched even once about cat-pissy sheets and blankets.
Since I’ve been concentrating on Zenishness these last couple of years, I’ve discovered that my time means much more to me than nearly any amount of money. I am most “zen” when I don’t have to wonder where all the clean underwear is.
And it’s hard for me to find “zen” in a laundromat – so my Washer-Woman has made life much more grand for me of late…
Except, that this time ’round, The Washer-Woman went AWOL. Thankfully, she disappeared between me packing the van and arriving at her house, and didn’t wait ’til after she had all our clothes. And I mean all our clothes.
Every now and again, you read about some old woman found lying naked on a bare mattress, near death, and you’re led to believe that the woman is alone, friend-and-family-less, and depressed and crazy.
She’s just out of clean laundry.
So I just spent thirty-five dollars and three and a half hours at the laundromat (my Washer-Woman went AWOL from there, as well – no where to be found), and I’m trying to be grateful that Freak Cat didn’t pee on anything this week. I’m mourning those lost hours, though.
And I’m mourning what appears to be a lost dryer. Every time I drop by the repair shop to find out if my perfectly A-OK dryer is lint-free yet, the guy looks confused, tells me he hasn’t “had a minute to take a crack at it” yet, and then asks me if he can sell it for me, since it’s a good dryer and he could get a good price for it….
I think maybe he’s already sold it out from under me, and is too chicken to tell me so.
I’m on the look-out for a new(ish), affordable washing machine, though (If The Washer-Woman is going to be a flibberty-jibbet, I’m going to keep my $30 a month), and I’m going to need my dryer back… how much you wanna bet that when I get it back… it’s not “my” dryer?
Random Song-for-the-Day: “You Take My Breath Away” – Rex Smith