Of Multiple Mounds – No, Mountains – of Laundry

When I was single laundry day came but once every two to three weeks. I would wash everything in three loads – including my towels and sheets – and be done with it for another good long time. I didn’t have a regular night for doing laundry, though my penchant (and I use that term sarcastically) for doing it did usually fall on Mondays or Tuesdays. Fact is, I hated doing my laundry and usually only did it when the gauge ran low. You see, I had a gauge – sort of like a gas gauge in a car, but this one involved clothes.

Underwear, actually. When I came to the point that I was out of clean underwear, it was time to do laundry. Needless to say, I had lots of underwear. Why did I have so much underwear? Well, I do know that there were times when I was out of clean underwear that I would go out and buy new underwear just so I could put off doing my laundry for a couple more days.

In my defense, there were many reasons why doing laundry as a single person was a drag. I was single, living in an apartment and had no laundry facilities of my own. That meant I had to haul my laundry somewhere else (even if it was to the laundry room down in the lobby, or at the clubhouse, depending on which apartment I lived in at the time). Then I would have to make sure I had enough change for the machines. Certainly machines take paper money by now, don’t they? Hell, I would think one could use a credit or debit card to operate a pay machine these days. (I wouldn’t know, because it’s been so long since I’ve paid to do laundry, thank God.)

But as much of a drag as laundry was as a single person, it’s 100 times that as a married woman with three kids. It’s not only a drag, it’s a drag-me-down. In fact, laundry seems to be a major part of my life. One would deduce that when one gets married, the laundry load might double. And once two people get settled and have a child, the laundry load might increase by a third.

But it doesn’t work that way. As the children arrive, laundry loads don’t increase proportionally, but exponentially. I haven’t quite figured it out, but it’s the reality. Fortunately, I have a high-capacity front-load washer and dryer set – almost a necessity with a spouse and three children. (I used to have the traditional kind, but we burned those out after the third child arrived. Guess they couldn’t handle that last exponential hike.)

As I write this, I have one load in the washer, one in the dryer,  two loads in baskets waiting to be folded, one load folded that needs to be put away, and three loads still sitting on the basement floor that need to be washed. Within the day I should get through the whole process of getting all the current laundry up to date.

But it’s never up to date because as I’m washing, drying and folding, more dirty laundry is being created. As of now, the hampers upstairs are spilling over, their contents waiting for their turn to hit the basement floor.

And hit the basement floor they will – hard. Just about the time I get the floor cleared and I’m feeling content because the laundry is done, that is when the mountain returns. Taking the dirty laundry from the hampers downstairs to the laundry room is among a few of the chores that we give to our boys so they can earn their allowances. I will give them credit for actually getting the contents from the second floor to the basement, but they are severely lacking on their presentation skills. In other words, they dump all the hampers all into one pile without sorting it or anything (to be fair, sorting of laundry is not on their list, though I’m thinking it should be). So it’s up to me chisel into that mountain and segment it down into the various mounds – whites, towels, sheets, husband’s work clothes, kids colored clothes, mine and husband’s colored clothes, etc.

How much longer must I endure this state of laundry limbo? Will things ever go back to the way they were? And why can’t the kids do their own laundry, anyway? For that matter, why do they have to use a different towel every time they take a shower (or sometimes two) each day? Why do those towels always end up wet and gross on the floor instead of hanging up on the rack? These are questions for which I will undoubtedly never receive answers.

I’m confident that as my nest starts to empty in the next few years, the laundry will ease up. But wait. That means the only way I can do less laundry is for my precious children to leave me? I don’t know if I can handle the thought of that right now.

So maybe that’s why God gives me so much laundry – to remind me to appreciate the time I have with my children now before they grow up and leave home.

Okay, God. Good one. But that might be a stretch. After all, how can I take time to appreciate them when I’m so busy doing laundry? But just in case that’s the message He is sending me, I’ll try to look at laundry in a different way. And when my children finally leave and I have to deal with that…well, I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

But for now, I’ve got a mountain to tackle. A mountain of…you guessed it.

Crock Pot Paradise

“Guard the soup, Luke,” I instructed my son as we recently transported a full pot of homemade chicken noodle soup to a church supper – an event hosted by the youth. (In other words, the moms did all the cooking.)

My dutiful middle son, bless his heart, did as he was told. But it was a struggle. I at least had the forethought to take my husband’s truck that night. I knew the soup was bound to slosh around a little, and I certainly didn’t want it all over my car! My Crock Pot has been faithful through the years – more than 20 years, I should say. But traveling with hot liquid concoctions is not its strong point.

“Arrrrrrrrgh!” My son screamed as I crossed yet another crack in the road. (I never realized there were so many until such time where we had to steady the soup in its vessel.) With the Crock Pot sitting firmly on the floor of the truck, Luke had straddled his feet on each side of it to keep it steady. As he was to find out, that wasn’t the best move on his part.  I hit the crack (or maybe it was a pothole, or whatever where so many of them pop up on the road over the winter). Then Luke let out an agonizing moan as the hot, steaming broth splashed and then trickled its way down his leg and into his shoe. From that point on, I think I didn’t go more than 30 miles an hour the rest of the trip. I stayed on the old road to avoid getting on the interstate. I didn’t dare go too fast, as I figured speed would lead to bigger splashes. Poor Luke ended up with a big blister on his ankle, at least a second-degree burn. Still, he was a sport. He spent the rest of the trip with his foot holding down the lid, with his ankles well away from the splash zone.

After arriving to the church and working with the other moms to help set up the spread (soup and salad night, it was), I found that I was not the only mom who had dealt with an adverse experience in transporting soup that evening. We were all complaining.

And then I spotted it – the mother of all slow cookers. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed it. We all did. We gathered around it. We salivated over it. We coveted. Pretty pitiful sight, actually. How much mediocrity does one have to have in one’s life to get excited over something like a slow cooker?

 What was it that our fellow mom had and we did not ? The Hamilton Beach 6-Quart Stay or Go slow cooker. What a beauty. It’s designed to travel and ideal for potlucks. Features on it include a secured lid with canister-style clips and a gasket for spill-resistant travel (it seals!); full grip handles; a lid rest that comes in handy when serving up the chow; and even a serving spoon that clips onto the lid handle. Now that’s my kind of Crock Pot! (At the risk of getting off point, I must note that this is not really a Crock Pot since it is a Hamilton Beach brand. As a writer and editor and a stickler for style, I must clarify that Crock Pot is a brand of slow cooker. However, the term Crock Pot is slowly going the way of some of its more well-known predecessors, such as Frisbee, Kleenex and Xerox. I did use the term in the title of this blog, but only for alliteration’s sake. There. Now see how anal I can be?)

Now back to the Crock Pot (uh, I mean slow cooker). All assurances that the story ends happily. In other words, yes I rushed out to Target (where our friend says she got hers) and bought one. Something tells me I wasn’t the only one, as I grabbed the last one. And let me say when I had it in my possession, I was more ecstatic than Ralphie’s dad was when receiving his “major award.” (If you haven’t seen the movie “A Christmas Story,” you’ll have to watch it to get that one.)

Today I made my first meal. Not soup, but a delectable pot roast that I put on to cook at 9 a.m. this morning. It cooked on high for about five hours, then low for about another five, and the rest of the time it was set on the “warm” setting. (Yes, it has a warm setting!) My husband was happy. I was happy. And most of all, my son with the burnt foot was happy.

My dutiful middle son Luke, holding the
newest addition to our family

Okay, maybe not my son. Actually, no. He would have much rather had pizza than pot roast. And as long as I don’t force him to haul hot soup between his legs, I don’t think he cares about my choice of slow cooker.

But it makes for a smooth end to this post. My old cooker injured my son, so as a mother it was my duty to retire it.

Yes, I see the logic now.  I had to buy that new slow cooker. For my son Luke.

Because I love him.

Falling Victim to the Coupon Queen

It inevitably happens anytime I have to choose a line in the grocery store, at the bank, at the fast food place or anywhere else: I choose the wrong one. Last Friday was no exception.

I had just posted my last blog where I had mentioned that there was nothing better than a good goetta sandwich on rye. And guess what? I started salivating for goetta reubens and decided that’s what I wanted for dinner that night. My son was at his baseball practice until 7:30, so I figured before picking him up I would run to the supermarket near the high school to purchase the necessary items to make for a premium goetta reuben. Of course, there was the Glier’s Goetta, along with a loaf of Busken Bakery rye bread, some really fancy gourmet sauerkraut from the deli section, good quality Swiss cheese, and to top it off – Pine Club Thousand Island salad dressing (direct from the renowned Pine Club steakhouse in Dayton, Ohio, located only a block and a half from my apartment when I was a poor college student at the University of Dayton. Too bad I couldn’t afford to patronize the place when I lived there. Anyhow, the Thousand Island is to die for. I hear the steaks are good too.)

So where was I? Oh, yes. I’ve loaded my items in my cart, along with three bottles of two-liter soft drinks (which my boys inhale, but only on the weekends because being the good parent that I am they’re not allowed soft drinks during the week) and a gallon of milk. Check-out time. I could try to go through the self-check out, but I felt I was just over the border of what the sign requests at the self-check: “small orders only.” I’ve had my share of being pissed off at those self-absorbed inconsiderates who try to get away with purchasing a couple of weeks’ worth of groceries at the “small orders only” self check. So being the considerate person that I am, I headed for a regular check-out line. “Why, there’s one,” I say to myself, noting only one person there. And she doesn’t seem to have that much stuff. Hence, my choice was made.

I position myself direction behind her and quickly unload the edibles, noting my watch and the fact that I’m now running a little late picking up my son. Hopefully I’ll be able to get out of here quick. By the time my items are on the belt, the other woman’s items had all been scanned. So far, so good.

Then my heart sank. Out they came.

Coupons. Lots of coupons. Dozens of coupons. And one by one, the cashier scans them just as she would scan each individual grocery item. I’m not exactly sure how she pulled this off because I don’t know how the extreme coupon game works, but I’m pretty sure she had more coupons than items. What’s up with that?

Problem was, I was stuck. While I was unloading my items on the belt, others positioned themselves behind me. Fortunately, they were able to get away. They saw the endless quantities of coupons emanating from this woman’s very being. They waited impatiently for a short time. And then, in the most discrete way, they were able to quietly sneak off and book it to another register. But my stuff was already on the belt. What was I to do? How could I pack up my items and head to another register without appearing awkward? So I waited. And waited. The cashier finished scanning the coupons, and as soon as she did, Coupon Queen would pull out more. And when it was finally over, there was a question as to whether they had all been scanned. Perhaps a couple had been stuck together . So a recount took place. In the meantime, I envied my fellow shoppers as they breezed through the other lines. Damn! In total, six people went through at the register next to me while I was waiting for the one woman in front of me to get done and get out. I stood there at least 20 minutes. The only consolation was the realization that I would be at least 30 minutes late picking up my son – payback for all the times he had kept me waiting. And even better, I had an excuse.

When Coupon Queen concluded her transaction and departed, I slowly sauntered up to the cashier as she began to scan my items. It didn’t take her long to run my stuff past the laser.  After all, I didn’t have much. Then she asked me the explosive question.

“Do you have any coupons today?”

My response was only four words, but I believe it took me a good 20 seconds to utter them, as at this point every fiber of my being was trying to keep my cool.

Slowly and deliberatively I replied. “Whhhhhhhhyyyyyyyyyy n-n-nooooooo. I don’t.”

She must have noticed the glare on my face and when she did, a look of empathy suddenly appeared. She sensed how I felt (I'm guessing she could relate), and nodded as if she knew what had just happened was just plain wrong. Then she explained.

“Um, a lot of people these days seem to be taking up coupons as a hobby,” she said. I probed. She implied the coupons are the latest craze and that people are getting all crazy about then. Coupon clubs are popping up all over the place, and people are actually paying for them. For instance, a person may pay a nickel for a certain dollar-off coupon.

When you think about it, I guess it makes sense – especially in today’s economy. If the coupons were the right ones, I guess I would pay pennies on the dollar to save big bucks also.

Mind you, I’m not against coupons. I love them. And I consider myself quite the bargain shopper. Entertainment coupons are great, though we don’t get out like we used to. Still, pay $20 for the book, use a couple of the hundreds of coupons (mostly for restaurants and recreation) and you’ve paid for the book.

And don’t get me started on Kohl’s. I won’t even go into the store if I don’t have a coupon. Kohl’s constantly sends me coupons for at least 15 percent off. And sometimes I will hit the mother lode and be lucky enough to score a 30 percent off coupon. Even better, these coupons are good for not only regularly priced merchandise, but also clearance items. I’m addicted to Kohl’s.  When I step foot into that store (with my coupons) I’m like a horny dog chasing a bitch in heat. Get out of my way – where are those 70- and 80-percent off racks?

Here’s what I’m saying: I love a bargain too. And I know it’s not just about money, but it’s the thrill of the search. I know the euphoria of finding treasures amongst a bunch of crap and then not having to pay much for them. To this day I’m still wearing a couple of pairs of $7 Dockers that I found off those racks. A couple of weeks ago I wore my fully lined wool pants and jacket. The whole suit was about $18. Just this week I found 80-percent off sales at Macy’s. Plus I had a 20-percent off coupon. Plus since it had been so long since I’d used my Macy’s credit card they opened another account for me and gave me another 15-percent off. I came out of there with a $5 cardigan, a $6 skirt and a couple of other things that were originally much more expensive but set me back less than $10 for each piece. So that was 80-percent off, plus another 35 percent off of that. I’m still high from that shopping trip.

My take is that coupons are good. Extreme “couponism” (my word, which I just made up) is bad. Fortunately, I haven’t been stricken by that bug, and I don’t think I will be. Going after all those coupons is just not worth my time. I would rather the coupons came to me.

I concede, however, that perhaps those who are coupon-consumed cannot control themselves. That’s why it’s time for the stores to step up. Hey grocery stores, how about giving those coupon queens their own dedicated checkout lines? For instance, every purchase at most checkouts would be subject to a 10-coupon limit, with the exception of just a couple of aisles which are reserved for the extreme coupon cronies. Let them all keep each other waiting. Then maybe they will realize how pissed off the rest of us get when they pull out their massive piles of supermarket Monopoly money.

For the record, Coupon Queen had 39 coupons, though it seemed like a couple of hundred. I asked the cashier, who knew the exact number. Remember – she was the one who had to recount them. (And if you just happened to use exactly 39 coupons at a grocery store last Friday night and there was only one woman behind you, no -- it wasn’t you.) And my son who I was supposed to pick up at 7:30 didn't make it into the confines of my car until 8:00. He was mad, but oddly enough I didn't care.

All in all, coupons are good in moderation. (I pity the woman who tries to pilfer my Kohl’s coupons from my mailbox.) But the current extreme coupon craze poses a serious threat to society. Tempers will flare. People could get hurt.  Innocent victims will suffer. Kids will be traumatized and feel abandoned as they are left waiting to be picked up from their sports practices. It must stop.

Coupon queens, enjoy your reign now. I assure you it won’t last. You’ve turned a good thing bad and it is up to the masses to make it right again. Just try to keep abusing your coupon privileges. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of us will surely topple you.

I Hate Black Eyes and Black-Eyed Peas



Whoops. Not these Black Eyed Peas.
Though I'm not really crazy about them
either. (Anyone catch the Super Bowl?)

I was born and raised in the South. So one would think I would have that inherent taste for the classic side dish of good old black-eyed peas. Truth be told, I hate them. Should I feel shame? Perhaps I should have been banned from the region and booted far north of the Mason-Dixon Line years ago.


It’s quite the southern tradition to consume a hearty helping of black-eyed peas every New Year’s Day. How does it go? Drop a dime in the pot, and whoever spoons it out of the seemingly delectable dish experiences good luck for the coming year. I wonder – if I am so fortunate to spoon out the coin, do I actually have to eat those little turd-looking things to enjoy the good tidings?



Yes, these are the
black-eyed peas that I hate.

 Actually, my preference lays with the “good luck” New Year’s dish of the North – sauerkraut. GASP! I couldn’t possibly be a (gulp) Yankee at heart? Must be some of those recessive genes passed on from my parents’ Michigan roots. I prefer to think it’s my German heritage. There’s nothing like a good goetta sandwich piled with sauerkraut on rye bread, smothered with mustard or maybe loads of Thousand Island dressing. Mmmmm good! It’s my favorite at the Oktoberfest Zinzinnati (though they normally serve on a bun instead of rye. Prefer the rye, but the massive quantities of Warsteiner, Erdinger and Spaten make up for it.) For those not familiar with goetta, it’s pork and oats slop, native to Cincinnati. Okay, it didn’t come from Germany, but the Germans who settled here threw the concoction together so they get credit for it. If you’re really interested (and you should be because goetta is de-lish), visit www.goetta.com. But hey, I’m off track here. I was talkin’ black-eyed peas. Still hate them.

Now here comes the big transition, meaning I’m about to segue from one topic to a completely different topic that has absolutely nothing to do with the subject from which I was just addressing. (Sound weird? The editor in me abhors ending a sentence with a preposition. While I concede that it is common, it’s not kosher.) Transitions are always a challenge to good writers, but I personally like creating them. I find them to be the most interesting part of writing. How does one go about making a smooth connection between two completely disparate topics?

What was I talking about? Black-eyed peas? Okay, let’s give this transition thing a try.

Speaking of black….

Yes, speaking of black, I also hate black eyes. Not the kind that one might get in a bar room brawl, but the kind that surface in spite of my best behavior. Damn dark circles under my eyes won’t go away. Does anybody know how to get rid of them? Over the last couple of years, I’ve had more than my share of friends comment to me that I “looked tired.” Honestly, there was a good reason for that. I was tired. Three kids, going to school, work. Hell yes I was tired. And I started to notice my raccoon eyes and chalked it up to fatigue and stress. But being between jobs (or in a time of “transition,” as one friend deemed it), the activity level is manageable and things are not quite so crazy. (Although I have found that the familiar stress has been replaced with a worse sort of stress, stemming from uncertainty. That’s bad for a control freak like me!)

Turns out I’m not tired. Just old. Now how do I get rid of these circles without paying big bucks (that I don’t have) to a cosmetic surgeon who would inject God-knows-what  into my sunken sockets? I’ve read all the internet solutions. I’ve tried the creams. When I apply the creams, they don’t “illuminate” but just make the circles look shinier. I drink water. I’m getting plenty of sleep. I’ve started taking vitamins. And in the meantime, I’ve started to cover them up the best I can with tons of concealer, “veils” and makeup. Perhaps I’m being self-conscious, but even after applying my makeup I still see those dark circles, the only difference being that they have a bunch of makeup caked onto them.

Me (Zeekie) -- March 2011. At least my nose is perky.

Haven’t tried cucumber slices yet. (Didn’t Mrs. Drysdale once do that on The Beverly Hillbillies? Or was it Mrs. Bellows on I Dream of Jeannie? Hmmm. Both of those ladies looked kinda old.) What else? Anybody? I’m desperate. Not that I’m trying to avoid the aging process. I’m cool with a few wrinkles. I figure by this point in my life I’ve earned them. A few gray hairs (if I had any, wink wink) would be easy enough to manage also (though I prefer to refer to them as hair strands without pigment). However, cute as one might be, I just don’t want to look like a raccoon.

‘Nuf said here, unless you have the treatment for dark circles. Then contact me.

Next column: The relation between Islamophobia in America and self-loving Southerners and their grits. Don’t like grits either. But when I get around to writing this one, it’s sure to be a hell of a transition!