Okay, this is the week I wrap up my random summer romp through a lil’ short story about a girl named Mags-short-for-Magdalene. At this point I should probably warn you that in the last month, I read Girl on the Train and binge-watched the first three seasons of Dexter, so, um, it’s about to get weird up in here.
She’d always been so careful not to get caught. She covered her tracks, moving around so that no one could figure out why all the soccer moms kept disappearing. “They had to go away,” she thought resolutely. She couldn’t live in a world where everyone’s snacks were better than hers. The sight of homemade granola bars made her want to strangle someone with a tube sock.
***I know. It’s like mommy blogging meets crime thriller. Try not to throw up. It’s almost over and this is the last week and it’s almost over.***
My bro and his family are in town and I’m excited for a week of cousin shenanigans and my parents over-feeding us. Last night as I was gnawing on barbecued chicken, we caught up on our lives.
Alex: Mel has an important piece about Porta Potties coming out soon.
Nate: You cover all the hard-hitting topics.
This is so true. Come here for everything you need to know about election coverage, world news, and hermeneutics. (Actually, I’m a little excited about that Porta Potty piece.) Maybe next week. In the meantime, let’s talk about my washing machine.
It’s broken and leaking water and filled with sludge. It’s like the heart of our home has broken. I feel like Rose at the end of Titanic.
I predict utter chaos and total nakedness by the end of the week if we don’t get this fixed. I’ve been phone-stalking the appliance repair guy all morning.
An Open Letter to My Washing Machine
Please don’t be dead.
Remember the time we did eight loads in one day together and then I had a meltdown and just sat in the pile of laundry rocking myself rather than trying to fold and put it all away? You didn’t say anything, but I felt your quiet support.
Remember all the poopy cloth diapers and the hours you spent on soak cycle trying to deturd the hemp liners, muttering “dirty hippie” under your breath? You begged me to try Pampers but you never quit on me.
What about the time I tried to wash a queen-sized comforter, realized it was killing you, and threw it away rather than let it hurt you?
We’ve been good together. You’ve been the best, just the best friend a mom could ask for.
It’s too soon. I’m not ready for it to be over. What do I have to do to bring you back?
Sloppy kisses,
Melanie
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