...unwashed phenomenom

Well you burst on the scene
Already a legend
The unwashed phenomenon
The original vagabond
You strayed into my arms
And there you stayed
Temporarily lost at sea


Picture from one of G's rock mags for cool middle aged men with endless and obsessive music collections (Mojo 09/06). Lyrics by Joan Baez from Diamonds and Rust (1975).

Tonight as 3 days worth of washing piled up unfolded and pizza boxes littered the table, we watched the second half of No Direction Home on DVD. Or at least, I watched while G and Shaun argued about whether Highway 61 Revisited was genius or ruined by an average band (ie not as good as the Stooges or MC5 or even The Band). Duh. Genius. Idiots. The last bottle of wine was a red spumante that smelled like vomit. They drank it anyway. OK, I had a little too. I'm not being very laundry focussed here am I?

Anyway, one of the boys told me that Bob Dylan had a brown jacket that was so filthy and that stunk so bad that Joan Baez had to burn it.  Such a womanly thing to do. Eventhough she was a bigger star than him at the beginning of their relationship. I dig that he is ironing her hair, fag in his mouth, the same way my mum used to hang washing on the line, in her dressing gown, fag in mouth.

The day that Daddy did everything

Looks like we're going to be shivering through Christmas this year. Snow is even a possibility in the mountains where the fires have been raging. But that's Melbourne in December for you. This is the bib I bought Grace last Christmas, it's been a firm favourite ever since. We all kind of like the kookiness of it when it isn't Christmas if you know what I mean.

Anyway, I asked G what he thought I should call this and he said that it was pretty funny that I was doing a Mrs Washalot when he had done everything washing related today. While I was doing the shopping and parcelling up the kringle subverting edible gifts et cetera. And there is still folding and ironing to do before I sit down and relax. But whatever. Peace and goodwill to all men I say.

So I'd like to wish all the readers of Mrs Washalot a safe and happy Christmas (or alternative holdiday). I think there's about ten of you now as close as I can guess, which is ten more than I ever thought that there would be, because you know, it's about the washing.

So have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Days of smoky haze

Hot, smoke the bushfires covering the sun. Life goes on.

Share your on-line experience

Some time ago, Alina sent me a link to this site. I'm surpised that I haven't been there before as I've researched the Hills Hoist a number of times. Maybe it's newish or this little gem has been tucked away in some little corner that I've missed. It's very odd. People write in with their Hills Hoist stories. Mostly about swinging from them. Although there is also a drinking game, spin the goon. But best of all is the laundry personality test. I kid you not. Mindless and trivial amusement for a hot night spent on-line, looking at what's on the line. Ha, ha. Geddit?  Anyway, the game involves matching a person, a pair of undies (including a thong) and some pegs. A clunky animated photo character with a big head then hangs the chosen undies on the Hills and you can then see what your choice reveals about you. It's so much sillier than you could possibly imagine. And someone goes to work and gets paid to devise all this! Although I imagine they would have other responsibilities as well.

Alina also made the comment that she sees laundry images everywhere. So do I. I feel surrounded by them. I could have something new to post everyday for a year. (Now that would be a challenge, but I don't think I will....) That said, I still love it when someone sends me or gives me something. My peg collection is growing steadily too. It's nice to have other people playing along.

It's too hot for December

I think what I said back here is already being proved wrong. We are not going to have one of those hot wet summers. It is going to be hot and dry. Today the city was covered in a thick brown grey smoke haze from the fires burning all around. You could smell it. Walking down to the pool, I could feel myself breathing it, the taste of burning tree from miles away sticking in my throat.

Issues of the state going up in flames aside, the smoke haze seems to suck all the colour out of everything. Or if the sun comes out behind the haze, as evidenced by a faint shadow,  the light is strange. Nothing looks sharp (eventhough the camera is set to vivid colour and the contrast has been turned up later). It's hot too and everything is limping.

Piles and piles of bloody folding

I haven't had a good old whinge about my folding duties for a while, so before I head off to bed I might have a quick old vent. Lest anyone who reads this thinks that I love doing laundry. I don't. I don't hate it but I don't love it either. I like the bit about finding clean, put away and pressed clothes to wear in my wardrobe, but I certainly wouldn't mind if little elves came in the night and folded and put away the washing. Today I folded; two loads of nappies, overpants, bibs and wipeys, a load of tea towells and dusters, sheets and pillowcases, my clothes, Grace's clothes. It was piled sky high, with another load still on the line. It was piled so high, you could see it reflected in the picture on the wall.

At the halfway mark, I whipped out my camera and took some pictures. My irritation subsided a little. Then I got back to super fast folding. That's why it's my job, because I'm so good at it. Then after Grace went to bed, I did the ironing while thinking about what to cook for dinner. I should never let it all back up like this.