This week has been rather light on the interview front, (I have one tomorrow- cross your fingers for me since it is one I actually want) which is fine with me because I am getting over a little cold gleaned from walking around with wet feet in Graz.

I have been a homebody and I didn’t mind or have a Gloria Steinham moment like I have with past partners (you know who you are. yes you.) when S asked me to put some washing on.

I talked about British Washing Machines when I was here in the spring. I really don’t understand why a country that was once the superpower big bad in the world not that long ago, can’t make a bloody decent washing machine.

Forget about drying your clothes in these stupid things. Just don’t even think about it. Really. Stop. Trust me. It won’t work.

So you load your clothes in and it fits 1/4 of what a normal wash would be even in a nasty little apartment in Hollywood. You shove it in and the soap is a little plastic bag/capsule/sack thing that you shove in with the clothes. Somehow the plastic holding the soap in evaporates during the wash. It is one of those things you don’t ask how it happens, it just does. Sort of like transubstantiation except, you know. . .different.

I’m really not sure how long it takes for the wash cycle to occur but it feels like three hours. It may only be two. So you wait two hours for the few paltry bits of clothing you were able to shove into the fucker then you hang it over drying racks or the tops of doors. It feels like 69% of the time we have laundry drying in our front room.

So I do laundry Monday. I messed up and put one of my favorite jumpers (sweaters) in the wash and since it was wool it can now fit a six year old. A very small six year old.

I also noticed I slightly shrank one of S’s new jumpers. A gray wool Russian army jumper that he just got in Camden. It looked like it might be okay though.

When S saw how I hung the laundry (which was absolutely fine mind you) he started rearranging it because he is anal like that which is beyond annoying but I am learning to live with it. I mentioned the Russian jumper. He saw it. Took a piss. And then. . .

He saw two of his other jumpers that have magically GROWN in size. I didn’t notice them when I hung up the laundry.

“What did you do???”

“I just washed it on the setting you told me to.”

“It looks like you had them professionally stretched. This can fit my Dad now.”

It’s a mystery. I can understand the shrinking of jumpers but the growing of them seems to break a few rules of science.

I am now under orders to no longer doing his washing, which doesn’t make me happy because now he won’t do mine.

Well, that isn’t strictly true. Knowing him, he probably will do mine.

That evening S took off his ring when he washed his face and it was gone when he went to put it on. In the morning it was on his desk. I think the ghost was punishing him for getting upset with me. (Not that he was that upset. His idea of upset is so mild, I’m not quite sure what to do with it.)

I suppose it is a convenient thing to have a ghost. Someone to blame things on. The moving of rings. The stretching of clothes. . .

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