I just pissed myself off by doing the dumbest thing. I did
some laundry yesterday – the last load being dog towels and work rags. It has
been raining a bit recently, so I have needed to dry 16 paws before they enter the house. My rule is
to ‘wash’ the washing machine after the dog towel load to clean out any
remaining dog hair. This rule comes from a lesson learned in life. Well, I've slept since yesterday and grabbed a priority basket
of lingerie to wash. And I didn’t clean out the machine prior to doing this.
Only we women know what misery it can be to wear an
ill-fitting, or cheaply made, bra. It took me ages to find the right make and
model that allows me to play the piano without straps slipping as I stretch out
on the keyboard. I even patronized those expensive, exclusive shops in the
mall. All the Fit Experts claimed to have the perfect design for my needs. No
sooner than I tried on the pricey garment, I called each attendant in to see
what I tried to describe was happening and what needed to be prevented by their
top of the line model. Sure enough, the straps slipped in front of their eyes.
One lady, proving she didn’t listen to a word I said in the initial interview,
was dumb enough to say, “Why would you do your arm way out like that?” My reply
was, “Because the very outer keys on the piano keyboard are way over yonder,
and I have to lunge to slam down the low A octaves for the big finish.” I got a
blank look. Needless to say, I didn’t purchase the item, even after she tried
to convince me it was perfect for me. Sister, I can’t play a passage on an
organ or piano in front of the whole church and then reach in my blouse to yank
my bra strap back into place. Well, I guess I could, but I would look like I
was doing right arm-left arm exercises as I fondle myself. With me being
single, I guess the world would understand.
So, back to my laundry lesson. . . A few years ago, I had an
uncomfortable feeling regarding a sensitive area that fits into the center of
the cup of the bra. I kept checking myself to see if some spot, or bump, was
coming up. I was thinking I might be showing signs of that rare funky cancer that’s
out there. I found myself checking several times that day. A spot just on the
rosey bit of flesh was itching and burning like crazy. Nothing showed after
several hours, but the irritation became worse. I finally got a magnifying
glass and my sewing lamp (which is an aluminum shop lamp most guys have in the
garage) (not kidding) and examined myself. In the prospect of this examine my
eye flicked to the fabric of the cup of the bra. Lo and behold, one of Bella’s
hard guard hairs had wedged itself in the material and had been poking me all
day long. Boink, Boink, Boink. All I needed was a cartoon sound bite to go with
my misery. Once I plucked the offensive hair out of the weave of the fabric I was fine. And yes, I am that
sensitive. And Bella’s hair is that strong.
Case in point: I called my sister over one evening and
handed her the tweezers and a needle and asked her to remove a splinter from
the bottom of my foot. I couldn’t see to remove it, so I needed her help. I
turned around, flipped my foot up for her to see where the splinter was and
heard her utter the classic, “Whuuuuuuut?” It was no splinter. It was a dog
hair. She couldn’t believe my feet are soft enough for a dog hair to pierce.
So, anytime I get this miserable stabbing feeling, I check
for stray doggie follicles. What can I say - it’s part of my life. Hence, I
have made the rule of washing the washing machine before the finer things go
in. Even when I follow the rule, I still scope both sides of the fabric for any
strays that may slip in on me.
Today I am relegated to brushing away as much as possible
before I hang them to dry. Once dry I will have to pull out the lint roller. Stubborn
little cusses will have to be plucked using a magnifying glass and the shop
light.
Dumb-ass. Dumb-ass. Dumb-ass
