This is not Little House on the Prairie

I turned thirty this year, and this month marks the three year anniversary in which I made that first monumental step into adulthood. No, it wasn’t graduating college. Nobody cares about that. Actually, I didn’t even go to my college graduation. What I did do was finally succeed in getting my own place. I was about 5 years behind on my ‘Life After College Plan’, because I wasn’t living in a foreign city working as a CIA agent. Alias gave me unrealistic expectations.

  With owning one’s own place there came an adjustment period. I constantly felt like I was living in a hotel because my room was strange and I knew no one. I even got locked in the bathroom my first night there. Stupid push lock doorknob. Mainly, I had to get used to the fact that I now had to walk outside to get to the laundry facility. It never failed that my underwear and bras always found their way to the top of the dirty laundry basket. You’d think seeing underclothes wouldn’t embarrass people. Everybody wears them; ok I know guys typically don’t wear bras. And sir, I am truly sorry if my bras and undies horrified you. But seriously what do you think holds my boobs up? It certainly isn’t gravity.

  Two weeks into living at the new place, I had used the laundry facility several times. No problems. The machines worked great up until that fateful night. I was pulling my darks out of the washer, and I notice white ‘down there hair’ all over my clothes. Oh, hecks no. This is not kosher. I shook my shirts like a bird taking off for flight, but the motion wasn’t dislodging the icky hair from my clothes. I paid a good $1.25 for clean clothes. Now they were infected with a stranger’s personal hair. I regret admitting this. I really do, but I couldn’t put them in the dryer with someone else’s DNA embedded in my personal items. I started picking the hair off. Of course, I didn’t notice the trashcan until after I dehaired my clothes. I am truly sorry for that. I did final glance of the washer before heading to the dryer, when I saw about 3 feet of twine in the bottom. Oh crap! I washed twine!!! Who washes their twine???  Then it hit me. It was me! That wasn’t a kindly neighbor’s down there hair. It was my twine.

  A week prior to this incident, I decided to try and hang pictures with twine. I wanted to go for that shabby chic look, but then I realized that the frames wouldn’t lie flat against the wall. Out of frustration and after a good 30 minutes of my time wasted, I stuffed the twine into the back pocket of my shorts. What did I learn from this: (1) Always check your pockets. (2) Twine can make for a good practical joke.

6 thoughts on “This is not Little House on the Prairie

  1. It could be worse, it could have really been someone else’s ‘down there’ hair, in which case I’ll look out for your story on ‘CSI:The Laundry’ next season.


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