If you can't stand the heat, stay out of the laundry room. That's my motto.
Genius returned from his ten-day vacation--I mean volunteer technology work--at Missouri Boys State last night. Funny how he went straight to bed and slept for 14.5 hours. That sleeping must have been hard work, because later in the afternoon he had to take a two-hour nap. Thank goodness I was able to nag him into revealing his dirty laundry between snoozefests.
Normally, I do laundry in the morning. Like between 6:30 a.m. and noon. Especially on days like these when the temperature climbs into the nineties. Had he only cracked open that festering suitcase last night, to release the King-Tut's-tomb-like miasma, I would have been able to tackle Mount Short T-Shirt Sock Brief in the cool hours of dawn. But no.
It's not that I am so altruistic that I wish to save the earth from harm, and refuse to add to the drain on power sources during peak hours. It's not even that I am too cheap to launder during peak hours. No. I have my reasons. And they all point to maximum comfort for Val.
My laundry room is off the kitchen, on the main floor. A wooden louvered door separates the rooms. The ceiling of the laundry room is lacking insulation. That's because there's a flap of ceiling that houses a pull-down ladder for attic access. You know. In case we need to get up there and set mousetraps so mice don't poop in our bathroom ceiling light/exhaust fan.
That little lack of insulation makes my laundry room the 10th Circle of Not-Heaven.
I could not begin my ascent of Mount Short T-Shirt Sock Brief until 11:00. No danger of frostbite on this peak. No sherpas, either. I was on the verge of losing consciousness upon disturbing the ragtag pile of supplies that needed transfer from the cloth cairn against the north wall to their cleansing bath on the south wall. Like a factory worker in a horseradish processing plant, I needed a gas mask. It did not help that two damp towels had been entwined in the moldy milieu, marinating, for 24 hours. Or that our power went out at 5:02 last evening, and the temperature rivaled that of an equatorial rain forest.
The goal was to complete three-fourths of the journey before a snowstorm blew in to obscure the peak. Or at least before a thunderstorm blew in to cut off the 3:00-a.m.-restored flow of electricity. I must declare the first leg of the climb a success. By 2:30, Mount Short Sock Brief had been conquered, and base camp was established. The uppermost peak, El T-Shirt-a-tan, will have my flag driven into it tomorrow.
I might even write a book about my adventure: Into Foul Air.