Airing My Dirty Laundry

In my last post, I mentioned that I had entirely too much laundry to be a serious goal-setter.

Lest you think I am prone to exaggeration on the Porch (who? me?), I share this picture of the latest pile:

Anyone else reminded of Marjory the Trash Heap, the oracle on "Fraggle Rock"?

Seriously, dudes. Laundry hates me. That's okay -- because as a single working mom -- the feeling is mutual. In fact, in my last house, I actually painted my laundry room the color of a margarita, hoping that would make all that sorting and washing and drying and folding more pleasant. Sadly, it only made me crave chimichangas. It was worth a shot, though.

Sure, I always have good intentions when it comes to the laundry. I do. I recall both my aunt and grandmother rising at 5:30 a.m. each day and starting loads of laundry with the sunrise (and possibly some drugs). Although I have never, ever done laundry at dawn, I still somehow think I will magically become that kind of diligent, disciplined housekeeper. But I also still somehow think I will become a ballerina, so there ya go.

Here is how laundry actually works here at the Porch:

• Humming a merry tune, I carry around my baskets and happily gather the laundry from the kids' rooms (translation: I yell from the couch, "KIDS! YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES TO BRING ME ALL YOUR DIRTY CLOTHES, OR YOU CAN FORGET ABOUT CLEAN CLOTHES THIS WEEK! AND SINCE YOU DIDN'T HAVE ANY LAST WEEK OR THE WEEK BEFORE THAT, I'D TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY!"). Although I often suspect they throw clean clothes into the mix to avoid putting them away, I wash them anyway. You only make the mistake once of smelling a pair of boy's underwear to see if it is clean.

• In between checking facebook and creeping on my daughter's Twitter account, I haphazardly sort the laundry into various piles: whites; darks; the these-striped-shirts-are-both-white-and-dark-I'm-so-confused-I-need-wine piles; and the oh-my-lawd-the-boy-hasn't-washed-these-socks-since-2007 piles.

• Then I step over those piles for a while. I mean, I went to all the trouble of yelling for clothes and sorting the laundry. That counts, right?

• Sooner or later, I throw one of the loads into the washing machine. Well, I mean, I attempt to throw a load into the washing machine. But I can't .... because that is when I discover the now mildew-infused load that never made it into the dryer. Those clothes didn't make it into the dryer because the dryer is full of towels that need to be put into laundry baskets. And those towels never made it into the laundry baskets because every basket is still full of clothes waiting to be folded. I fold clothes on my bed, and you see that photo up there, right? There's a hole in the bucket, Dear Liza, Dear Liza. It's a vicious cycle, friends.

• Eventually, the kids complain about having to wear old Halloween costumes to school because they are out of clothes, so I pour some vinegar into the washing machine and rewash the mildewed load. Sure, I secretly celebrate this because it buys me more time - to try to figure out how I will find time to fold laundry.

• The truth is, I probably will wash that same load three or four more times before it actually makes it into the dryer. I work, okay? And this blog doesn't write itself -- although I probably should say that it does sometimes ("Really? That post about grandma's nipples? Totally wrote itself. Yep. I was too busy doing laundry that day for such nonsense").

• I also likely will spin the loads in the dryer several times before I fold them because that is, in fact, how I iron. I hear occasional rumors that there are these appliances that you plug in and press over your clothes to get rid of wrinkles. I do not understand why people bother with such things. Do they not own dryers? Or know where the neighborhood dry cleaner is? Or hang their clothes in the bathroom while taking a steamy shower? Or know how to run the curling iron over the shirt collar without getting burned (actually, I have not perfected that one yet. Mom, that really was not a hickey)? The husband-to-be is a lawyer, so he has all these important-looking shirts with buttons and collars, and I'm guessing, wrinkles. I have warned him that I do not, and will not, iron, but since I think Iron Man is super cool, he should count his blessings.

Speaking of blessings, I have heard I should be grateful for loads and loads of laundry because they are reminders that those I love are still here (uh, I know they are still here; I can smell those dirty socks three rooms over).

But yes, since my blessings are still here, I think it is high time their mother someone better at housekeeping teaches them how to do the laundry.

Some People Walk in the Rain

Let the rain kiss you.  Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.  Let the rain sing you a lullaby.  ~Langston Hughes

I am sorry if it has literally rained on any one's Labor Day parade, and I am terribly sorry for the havoc Hurricane Isaac has caused elsewhere.

But in my drought-soaked area, I have welcomed Isaac's rain.

The rainy weekend has replenished the earth after a long, hot, dry summer -- and nurtured my soul after a difficult couple of weeks. I have walked in the rain; turned my face up to it; fallen asleep to its soothing lullaby; cried with its storms; laughed in its sprinkles; and loved it. Loved it.

My fiance and I spent much of the weekend in the company of good books. As we sat around his house reading, I thought about how wonderful it is to have someone with whom you can embrace the quiet; to feel so comfortable in each others' presence that the quiet is not a void to fill, but an old friend who loves you with or without clever conversation.

And books! The joy of books! How grateful I am for those words that can whisk us out of own heads and into the lives of others, who are more messed up or more admirable or more everything or less everything than we are.

What is better than a good book on a rainy day? A nap after a good book on a rainy day.

We took glorious naps this weekend; sipped wine; and watched scary movies, including Jaws. It made me think less of monster sharks and more of the 1970s, of running around the drive-in playground in red, canvas sneakers, spinning dizzily on the merry-go-round, my whole life stretched out like the light beaming from the giant screen above my head, sluicing through the dark.

But the now has promise, too.

One evening, after books and before movies, my guy ventured out in the rain -- in his pajamas, no less -- to buy butter so he could make me baked hot chocolate, which is chocolate + butter + love. Each bite was more beautiful than the one before it. If Jesus was a dessert, He would be baked hot chocolate.

Goodness, how grateful I am for a man who not only is smart, funny and handsome, but bakes, too. We are polar opposites in the political arena -- and yes, this heated election year has tested our patience at times -- but what that man can do with sugar, butter and chocolate more than makes up for the Rush Limbaugh mug in his cabinet. Liberty, justice and chocolate for all.

In addition to chocolate decadence, I spent time this rainy weekend writing, journaling and praying. I thought about this quote:

I will not die an unlived life. I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire. I choose to inhabit my days, to allow my living to open me, to make me less afraid, more accessible, to loosen my heart until it becomes a wing, a torch, a promise. I choose to risk my significance; to live so that which comes to me as seed goes to the next as blossom and that which comes to me as blossom, goes on as fruit.
-Dawna Markova

Although I am not usually a "goal-setter" (I have too much laundry for that!), I quietly set a goal ... to set some goals. Hey. It's a start!

One goal? I want my children to be proud of their mom, who does not always get it right, but who takes big, bold chances "to allow my living to open me."

Last night, while my daughter giggled in the next room with a friend who needs and deserves laughter, my son and I curled up on the couch with hot tea and enjoyed the more recent movie adaptation of The Count of Monte Cristo

While it drizzled outside, my boy and I talked about the importance of honor and God and the dangers of envy and revenge.

At one point in the film, Edmond Dantes says, "Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes." 

I woke up during a storm this weekend. I slipped out of bed and tiptoed into the living room, where I sat on the couch and cried for the bad news someone I love recently received, tears streaking down my face like the rain on the windows. It was needed. Afterward, my soul felt like it had been washed on the delicate cycle.
 
This morning, I woke at my leisure to a quiet, dark house and the softest tapping of raindrops on the roof.

I don't know what's in store for today, as the rain has changed outdoor plans, but I am okay with not knowing. I am okay with not doing.

It has been the kind of soul-soothing, rainy weekend I needed, reminding me of a poem I once wrote about hurricanes - but have amended slightly here:

These raindrops,

my tears

These winds,

my whispered prayers

This swollen ground,

my grief

These muddy pools,

my wellspring of hope

Hurricane rain

Falls

                Softly

                                 Now

As Mother Earth acquiesces.

Possum Balls: A Story of Hope (and perhaps my best blog title ever)

If something was bad, I used to say it "sucked donkey butt." I don't know where that lovely expression came from, but it certainly has applied to the valleys of my life.

Let's face it, though. It's a crass expression; it's beneath me; and it's so 2008. As a pretend-writer, I need something much more ... poetic ... to sum up the past week.

Folks, the last week sucked possum balls.

I know. I know. I truly waste my talent here on the Porch. I should write for Hallmark.

Yes, I'm weary of my own complaining. I've worn myself out with it - and likely those who love me, too. At least I'm assuming that's why they automatically pour a glass of wine or hand me a cupcake when they see me. They know either of those will temporarily shut me up.

I was already working hard to embrace that whole it-is-what-it-is concept of life, when fate threw another curve ball. I'll spare the details for now, but trust me when I say it was one of those take-your-to-your-knees moments, when all the air in your lungs whooshes out at once, leaving you irrevocably altered. I hate those moments. They suck armadillo titties (too far? Really? Worse than possum balls?).

But this isn't about me. It really isn't. And believe it or not, this isn't a downer post.

This is a post of gratitude.

In the midst of a big, bad ol' storm, I found rays of light.

Anyone who knows my family knows that we have an irreverent sense of humor. I don't know where it came from, exactly. Perhaps it is genetic, or perhaps there is a gas leak in that big, old, rambling house we grew up in that resulted in permanent brain damage. Whatever the case, nothing is sacred with us. Nothing. I learned this week that not only will we do what is hard, but we will, somehow, find a way to laugh our way through it. Gallows humor is not for everyone, but it works for us.

It must be what inspired us to keep changing the dry-erase information board in a bleak hospital room this week, adjusting the patient's allowed activities to include "popping and locking" and "slip and slides." No, the nurses were not amused. But we were.

My family also spent some time each morning discussing stories in the local newspaper. One day, when I asked where an accident had happened, someone else misheard and thought I asked, "What were they wearing?"

That led to a discussion about how entertaining it would be if all news stories - instead of the who, what, where, when, why and hows - immediately reported on the outfits individuals involved in the event were sporting. This is where I should add that my family was in the newspaper business for a long time, so it's entirely possible we've absorbed too much newsprint ink.

Soon we began to make up news stories [insert Fox News joke here], including detailed descriptions of the subject's fashion ensemble:

President Obama announced today that a huge asteroid is slated to hit the Earth in December, most likely ending all life as we know it.
Obama was wearing gray, baggy sweatpants with a "Keep Your Pimp Hand Strong" t-shirt.
"This is a sad day for the world," Obama said, "But it's a pretty damn good day to be a Mayan."

Soon my mom and I had those cathartic, non-stop giggles, the kind that brings to mind that wonderful scene in Steel Magnolias when Clairee tells M'Lynn to hit Ouiser, and soon everyone is laughing through tears.

That's good stuff when you've had a week of a rotten stuff. It's the stuff of hope.

And I'll take that any day over possum balls and armadillo titties.

And Now for the Shortest Blog Post EVER...

That is all.

Happy Blog-day to Me!

For my Porch Sitters, with love & jelly.

Guess what, y'all?

This is my 100th post! [cue wild applause, balloons, confetti and Michael Jackson dancing with Emmanuel Lewis. We all celebrate in our own way, people.]

According to Willard Scott, 100 is a big deal, worthy of jars of jelly goodness.

I also learned from Wikipedia that 100 is an anti-gonal number. Math was never my best subject, but I'm guessing that means 100 is a lesbian.

Most importantly, as someone who always dreamed about being A Writer but never quite made it there (read: spends too much time on the Internet), the 100th post says something to me. It mostly says, "Who the heck reads this stuff?!" You do, apparently. God bless you for that.

Still, I'll give myself a teeny-tiny bit of credit, since it's my happy blog-day. The 100th post also says I stuck with something.

Honestly, I began the Porch when I was lost. I didn't know where to go. I didn't know what to do.

Writing has always been a way of soul-searching for me, a way to sift, sort and, well, find my way.

Granted, I have spent most of my life writing in some form. When I graduated from college, I found ways to pay the bills by stringing sentences together in a mostly coherent way. For a while, I was a journalist (I don't like to brag, but I have interviewed both Pauly Shore and Pat Boone. It's okay to be super jealous). I also dabbled in marketing and public relations and even pretended to be a writing teacher for a while.

But I wasn't writing for me. I was telling stories, but not my own. The Porch was a way to change that.

At the time, I didn't know if anyone would ever read what I needed to say, but I knew -- way down deep in my polysorbate-coated-gut -- that it was time to write for myself. I even gave myself permission to write badly, as long as I was writing. The Porch, after all, has always been a playground for me.

Depending on my mood and the availability of my muse (she's flighty, that one), I have written silly things and not-so-silly things; bad poetry and self-indulgent prose (like this!). I am sometimes a mommy blogger; sometimes an ornery blogger (<--I like her); sometimes a casual explorer of life's randomness; and sometimes I've just had too much wine.

But the point is, thanks to the Porch, I found my way. I found a place where I belong.

I hope some of you have, too.

Some tell me I'm sappy; some tell me I'm vulgar. As long as I'm being told both, I figure I'm doing my job. I have conservative readers; liberal readers; gay readers; straight readers; old readers; young readers; guy readers; gal readers; Hatfield readers; and McCoy readers. I like to think that means that everyone can find something here, something that ties us all together in spite of our many differences (Hugh Jackman? I'm betting it's Hugh Jackman).

Thanks to those of you who have visited the Porch through the years. As unlikely as this is, some of you aren't even related to me. Google stats tell me that most of my readers are from the United States ('MERICA!). But I also routinely have Russian visitors. Maybe I am to Russia as David Hasselhoff is to Germany. Most likely, Russians read my blog to feel vastly superior to Americans, much like they did when their neighbor, Sarah Palin, was a vice-presidential candidate. Or maybe it's because of the dance I did that ended the Cold War.

No matter where you come from or what brought you here (took a wrong turn at the corner of bing and google?), I hope the Porch has been a welcoming place for you: a place to laugh, unwind and learn important facts about snack cakes - like how Ding Dongs tasted so much better in thin, foil wrappers.

To Southerners, porches are sacred places, where friends gather to sip and sit a spell (how long is "a spell"? That, my friend, depends on how much wine you have). Porches also are places to pause -- to breathe and soak up life. Thank you for being my guest and soaking up a little life with me.

To celebrate my 100th blog-day, I plan to eat jelly out of the jar. But since I do that every day, I also plan to officially call myself a writer now. Stop giggling. I'm gonna work it. I'm gonna work it so hard.

In between raising children whom I relish; working an important day job that I relish; and transitioning into my new life, that yes, I relish, I am going to write more. Notice I didn't say I'm going to find time to write more because I've looked for that time, and it obviously hides out with lost socks and gloves and great movies that star Jennifer Lopez. It doesn't exist.

But desire certainly does. I just have to match my passion with some work ethic and ba-da-bing! I'll be writing my 101th blog post in no time.

Like maybe next year.

Hey. I never set a deadline. There's way too much Internet out there for that. I'm going to open a jar of Smucker's and watch videos of cats walking on their hind legs now. It's how we party on the Porch.