So, how often should one do laundry? I used to think that something should be washed after every time you wear it. Of course, I never followed this rule, but lately my mom has been getting mad at me for having my clothes washed too often.
"I saw this jacket in the laundry room last week. It probably just got washed," my mom says as she pulls my green Little Caesar's jacket from the bottom of my hamper and throws it at me.
I quickly move out of the way of the incoming jacket. "That's disgusting." I say, "I wore that."
"Oh yeah," she says, and slowly picks up the discarded jacket with a pair of tongs and carefully eases toward the washing machine to drop it in.
"No, wait," I say and grab the jacket from her. I press it firmly into my face and take a big whiff. "It's still good," I say as I put the jacket on.
"It does seem a little damp for my taste though," I say.
"You're dripping," she says, pointing out the stream of liquid coming out of the back of the jacket.
We both looked in the hamper the jacket had come from and found a 3 to 5 inch puddle of a lemonade-esque liquid at the bottom. My mom was the first to venture a guess as to what it was.
"Oh, I think the cat went in the hamper," she says.
"You mean the cat that everyone loved, that you killed because she tore up the curtains?"
"Yeah, that's the one."
The vivid memory of my mom carefully picking up my limp and probably drugged cat with a pair of tongs and moving toward the washing machine flashes through my mind.
"You know, you didn't need to wash the cat before taking her to the pound," I say.
"I just thought it was the right thing to do.” she says, “Those pet-killers have such a terrible job as it is."
"Mom, being a school teacher isn't that bad, is it?" Zing!
She just looks at me with two contemptuous eyes. We're both silent for a few moments.
I abruptly begin, "Well, that was 3 years ago. It couldn't possibly be..."
"When's the last time you did your laundry?" she asks.
"I thought you were doing it every week."
"I haven't gone near it since I asked you to start doing your own laundry so you'll know how to do it on your mission." she says.
"Mom, that was a deacons Duty to God requirement."
"Mom, I'm a priest."
"Oh. Then I guess that explains all this," she gestures toward 5 hampers overflowing with my dirty, smelly, rotting laundry.
"I thought you were just trying to conserve water," I say.
"I thought you were just a big slob," she responds. Good point.
"What!?" I exclaim in an offended tone, "What could've given you that idea?"
She just started snorting and rolling around in that way that always gets on my nerves. "Oh, Matthew, you can be so funny sometimes." Yeah, she's weird.
She continued to act in this childish manner, and I probably would've lost my temper if a piece of fabric protruding from one of the buckling hampers hadn't caught my attention.
"Whoa, are these my old Osh Kosh Bigosh overalls!?" I shout as I pull on the pant leg of the vintage piece of clothing.
With some difficulty, I manage to pull the overalls out from the mass and began to try them on.
"I haven't seen these since the 3rd grade!"
I put both my legs into the leg holes and pull up as high as I can, but the straps still won't reach over my shoulders. However, this is not a problem because my legs are so squeezed in, there is no chance of the overalls falling down. I let the straps hang down, and as any man in my situation would, I begin to strut around the room.
The doorbell rang.
"There's my date!" I begin running to the door.
My dear old mom, in her loving and overly-protective way, tries to stop me.
"Mom, would you please stop rolling around, you're going to trip me!"
She struggles to make any intelligible sound, and continues to roll around in protest.
"Look mom, I'm a man now. Men have needs. I'm going to keep going on dates, and eventually move out and get married someday whether you like it or not."
This only makes her more flustered and her face even begins to turn a shade of violet as a result. Finally she gets some words out.
"Well, I wouldn't be too sure about that," she quickly says before collapsing on the floor.
"Whatever." Sometimes my mom just can’t accept that I’m growing up.
As I head towards the door, I feel something in the big center overalls pocket. I reach in and pull out a sealed up Ziploc bag containing what looked like the remains of a tuna sandwich. Well, it was either that or some of my mom's famous clam chowder (which she hasn’t made in 6 years).
"Sweet, looks like I'm not going to have to pay for dinner after all!" I rejoice.
I can already tell that this is going to be the best El Cheapo ever.