As I sit here on a Saturday morning gnashing on what I consider to be an off-brand production of my favorite bagel which has been lovingly slathered with a requisite volume of chive & onion flavored cream cheese, I can’t help but to ponder the palatability of the new flavor of breakfast oriented energy drink I’ve selected to help wash down this morning’s offerings to my gastronomic satiety.  

The bagel, although explosive in flavor, is an organic brand which costs $2 more a pack than my standard brand. My standard brand has been out of stock as long as the store brand of lubricating eye drops I tend to favor.

Coincidence?

Regarding the lovely beverage which touts itself as having a bigger boost of energy, I’m going to retain my loyalties with other flavors in this line and bypass this mocha flavored swill in the near future.

As previously mentioned, it’s Saturday morning.  The date is April 18, 2020 as of this writing.  Normally, I would be here weaving a brilliant tapestry of metaphors and challenging imagery as I sort the reds from the lights from the dark solids out of my laundry basket.

If you question the premise of challenging imagery coming out of a simple blog born of the alchemy composed of a slathered Everything bagel and a flavor free energy drink which leaves an aftertaste, consider this.

Monkey butter.

That’s right people.  I don’t need to do my laundry like I normally do on Saturdays.  I had to do it on Wednesday when la gaveta con chones came up empty and suggested I may have to consider donning a pair of las bragas if action wasn’t taken soon.

Sadly, this has been going on for a few weeks now.  It’s only now that I’ve chosen to write about it instead of breaking the cycle by recalibrating my laundry schedule by taking a smaller set of loads to the big rock down by the stream today.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am the very epitome of a creature of habit.  I have unspoken and undocumented schedules and processes around practically everything that I do.  I can tell you what bills get paid on what day every single month.  I can tell you which side of the bagel gets slathered first.  I can tell you how the yard gets mowed, edged, and trimmed every single time, although not in that order. 

I could tell you what I do on Saturday mornings, however I’d like to think you’ve read enough here on TharpSter.Org to have a pretty good idea.

So when I tell you that I had to do laundry on Wednesday instead of Saturday, you need to understand that I’m in a bit of higgledy-piggledy right now.

How in tarnation did this happen, you’re thinking.

Well I’ll tell you.

There comes a time in all of our lives where we experience a smidgeon of oblivious complacency.  When we do, it discombobulates our entire life.

In my case, it’s discombobulated my reds, lights, and dark solids. 

Okay, Faith just came in looking for a walk.  She had her teeth cleaned earlier this week and is still a little stupid from all of the ha-ha gas they had to use to knock her out.  Since you know my Saturday routine, you’ll understand I’ll need to step away for a few to cater to her demands and further enable her overblown sense of entitlement.

Okay, I’m back.

The dog has been walked and I’m free to resume my monkey butter production.

The bit with the laundry started last month, most likely on a Saturday.  Everything had been sorted out, and I was marveling at the fact that there were no shirts with collars in the load. 

Since the collars get a different treatment when it comes to drying them, tangential processes are enacted for those garments.  At the same time, I had already been working from home for a week or two by then.  The durable cargo-short-casual dress code was in full force and effect, even in the event of my incapacitation, such as due to illness or accident.  As such, the collared shirts remain in a self-quarantine in the closet.

Laundry sorted and sitting on the floor at the foot of my bed, I retrieved one of those hypo-allergenic laundry pods which possesses a flavor reticent of that energy drink I imbibed earlier this morning.  Pod being decisively tossed into the tub, I verified the cold water setting and the load size setting.

I hit the button to start it up, and the machine did its best impression of Cesar Milan correcting an American Staffordshire Terrier from committing libidinous acts upon the leg of the cameraman who’s just there to film a reality show.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

Nothing else.

Operating under Einstein’s definition of insanity, I repeated the process a few times with every expectation that my dark solids would be going into the drink within a matter of moments.

Each time it was just “TSHHHH”.

This wasn’t the first time we had encountered issues with that washer.  The motor had to be replaced 6 months after we purchased it a few years ago.  Needless to say, I was building a chip on my shoulder the size and shape of an all-in-one laundry center.

I immediately took to the internet and scheduled a service appointment after answering pre-qualifying questions about whether anyone in the house had a hacking cough or a need for hand sanitizer.

A few days later, a repairman appeared at the door donned in a mask, gloves, and shoe coverings.  I pointed him to the offending unit in question which is just outside of the door from where I’m working from home.

“I’ll be in here working.”  I told him.  “Just let me know if/when you need something.”

Within a count of five-Mississippi, the washer was running.  “Do you want to cancel your appointment sir?”  The masked avenger inquired.  “Otherwise I have to charge you $100 trip charge.”

I hadn’t been that gob-smacked since I stood there in the middle of the bread aisle a few weeks earlier contemplating what was going to replace my Everything bagels for breakfast.

As the repairman sat in his van out in front of my house entering a comment about me not being available at the time of the agreed upon appointment time, I resumed my weekly Saturday laundry duties on a Wednesday.

My laundry schedule hasn’t been the same since.

We’ve now come to a point where you’re wondering what was wrong with the washer.

It was oblivious complacency. 

The Load Size knob was a few degrees off from any valid load setting the washer possessed.  Since the washer didn’t know how much water to feed into the tub, it generally refused to do anything.

I had failed to notice this when I was starting the machine, and when I was troubleshooting the issue.

That’s right people. I engaged in retarditude.

Okay, let’s get back to the quarantine.