Don't call CPS on me. Please. I have a confession. And I'm gambling on nobody having the CPS hotline number at the ready. CPS. Clothing Protective Services.
Last night I threw in a load of laundry when I started supper. You remember supper. That's the time in the evening when, according to Hick, I merely warm something in the oven, or heat it in the microwave. Good thing he doesn't run the Cooking Channel. It would be called the Warming Channel.
So I tossed those clothes in the washer, and just as I announced that the warmed and heated food was served, I transferred them to the dryer. Hick did not even heed the call to supper. He was receiving two freight containers over by the BARn. He likes to call them "my new outbuilding." But "dilapidated freight containers" seems more fitting to me.
This morning at 5:10, I went to the dryer to retrieve my socks. Nothing makes you more ready to face the day than fresh clean socks. I opened the dryer and observed huddled masses yearning to breathe free. The wretched refuse started seething more. I overheard them badmouthing me. Simply because I set the timer...but forgot to push the start button.
Granny Panties: "All day long we cover her butt! We must strive to survive under pressure. And THIS is how she treats us? This job ain't all it's cracked up to be."
Socks: "We could have made a break for it. Don't think we can't escape. It's part of the very fabric of our lives. Our toefathers before us disappeared practically every week. One at a time. So as not to arouse suspicion.
New Jeans of Genius: "This experience has taken all the starch out of me. Here I lie, spineless, in a crumpled heap, without the wherewithal to stand up for myself. I want to soar like an American Eagle. Not slump like a Walmart fall-apart."
My apologies to my thready friends. I need them. I toasted them good for fifty minutes. They warmed up to me again. But they are not happy with the athletic shorts and fast-drying knit shirt that Genius wore Sunday for mowing lawns. They see them as my favorites.
The Nike shorts and shirt smirk from their hangers, high above the lowly dryer.