Our house broke last week. Normally our house has this special feature, in which I place my clothes in a container in my closet throughout the week, and then on Sunday night, the clothes appear on my bed fresh and folded. That didn’t happen last week. I went to pack on Tuesday night for my trip and all I found were stinky, gross clothes.
On a completely unrelated note, Adam was out of town all weekend, not getting home till Wednesday morning.
I had this dilemma of what to do. I gathered the absolute clothing essentials in my arms and then wandered, confused, from room to room. Finally I discovered this strange box in our basement and I tossed my clothes inside of it. Sure enough, a bit later, my clothes came out of the box smelling better. It’s nice to know that this can be done, but I found the process so mentally taxing that I don’t think I’ll try it again.
Of course the entire process was an exercise in futility because within minutes of arriving in New Orleans, I was covered in butter, beer, and sweat.
And now I’m headed back and I
really hope the house is fixed. Because I’ve got a suitcase of smelly and not an extra brain cell to spare to figure out what to do with it.