So I am standing in the laundry room scratching my head. I’ve come here with a purpose, to get something, I think, but I cannot for the life of me remember what.
I look around for clues.
There are the rinse and mangle twins and a large pile of dirty clothes in the hamper.
No, I didn’t come back here to start pushing a load of clothes through the wash,
but here I am,
there they are,
so I might as well.
After I load the washer and hit the Start button, I look around some more.
There’s a basket of clean but unfolded clothes.
Well, I didn’t come back here to fold those,
but here I am,
there they are,
so I might as well.
After I fold the clothes and go put them where they belong, I come back to the scene of my lost marbles.
Why did I come back here?
There’s a bunch of clothes on the hanging bar where I hang them directly as I pull them warm out of the dryer. (Ironing don’t play here).
Well, I didn’t come in here to get those to put them away,
but here I am,
there they are,
so I might as well.
I go back one more time. I scratch my head in dismay.
This is going to drive me nuts. I’ve just got to figure it out.
I cannot be losing my mind this early.
Coco, sensing my impending mental breakdown
(or perhaps just looking to remind me of her presence
and her permanent openness to receiving a cat treat),
comes into the laundry room and does the serpentine dance of kitty property marking, rubbing her entire body around my ankles in the prescribed infinity symbol which signifies the length of time during which I am bound to serve her.
(Cats were worshipped as gods when, to their way of thinking,
things were right with the world.
They have never forgotten.)
I look down at my pretty little Bengal wannabe.
Such a sweet cat.
I bend over and scratch her under the chin to her audible delight.
Damn, my legs look so freaking dead fish white,
especially in contrast to my navy blue underwear.
Palm slap to forehead,
Ah-hah!
I scoop up the purring clue reminder and go off to the drawer
where I stashed the freshly folded shorts.
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