I dash around the house collecting discarded clothing for a final, last minute, emergency laundry load, but that’s the trouble with holidays.
Why everyone appears to need to drop their drawers, if not ping them to the far corners of every room, I shall never know. I think this must be the catapault stage of development: how far can single sock travel in an even trajectory, does the right sock travel further than the left sock, is cotton more pingworthy than wool? I spy a purple fluffy toe stuffed between two sofa cushions but as I pull it out I also find several tatty handkerchieves, balled up and slightly graying. It appears that Nonna has become a co-conspirator on the laundry front. Why can’t she use tissues like everyone else, although to be fair, everyone else uses various parts of their anatomy or any handy piece of upholstery. As I plop them into bucket to soak, I notice a monogramme but it’s the wrong initials. It is a large man’s hanky. Married for more than fifty years, widowed but a few short long months.
Although I am officially allergic to ironing, I may just have to make an exception.
4 hours ago