Laundry day

How can any one man possibly use 21 pair of socks in one week? How many feet does he have? I hate doing laundry. Oh, and I didn't count the myriad orphan socks. Does he wear a pair each for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? Not to mention a copious pile of shirts. My laundry, by comparison, is tiny. And he’s so dismissing of it all—like it was no big deal to wash a mountain of clothing. Women’s work. What am I, the Irish washerwoman? Indeed, I am going clean mad! In the midst of cursing up a blue storm, I wondered, Where do all the orphan socks go to die anyway? Listening to my new CD of the Browne Sisters sing A Thousand Curses on Love in Scots Gaelic (Mile Marbhphaisg Air A'Ghaol), a tweed waulking song from the West Hebrides. They've softened the blow with their harmonies. Usually the song has quite a thump downbeat as the women smash the tweed into the table and pass it on. A friend said, Then they smash their husbands who, of course, are ALREADY smashed! I replied, thinking of the laundry, An upside the head behavioral mod is useful now and then! I’m circling the drain.

Rev 5/20