This is the way we wash the clothes...

So I went in the bedroom and dumped everything out on the bed, figuring to start out this experiment with a “light load,” which by now I had decided meant light in color rather than light in weight – the proper term for the latter being a “small” load. As it happened, when I pulled out all the underwear and a few pairs of tan socks, the load was still pretty small, so I threw in a pair of light tan cords and a perm press oxford shirt to add a little heft. My logic was that if the underwear got a touch of the tan from the pants, it wouldn’t really matter much in the whole scheme of world affairs and would be a good learning experience. I stuffed it all in a shopping bag, put on “Met Stars Sing Puccini” really loud, poured myself a little Scotch rocks in one of those enameled glasses so you can’t really tell how much is in there, and headed downstairs.

I am feeling upbeat because I have read the manuals for both the washer and dryer, which the former owners had miraculously left behind in a file drawer along with those for the microwave, fridge, stove, furnace, lawnmower and at least a dozen other necessities of home ownership. There are, I admit, a few manuals for things that did not seem anywhere to be found, but still I was impressed. I should also add that various sisters, nieces and co-workers have assured me that I’ll catch on fast. I know the one on the left is the dryer because it loads from the front and the one on the right is the washer because it loads from the top. This was going to be a snap.

Then I ran into my first problem. The half bottle of Whisk, also graciously left behind, had detailed instructions involving the “self-contained measuring cup.” But there was no such damn cup. I did have a measuring cup up in the kitchen (What I’m ever going to use it for I have no idea), but I had the good sense to realize it probably did not use units of measure appropriate for laundry detergent. Crestfallen, I peered inside a cardboard carton of Dreft, which I had about decided to toss out because the instructions on the box were in Spanish – the only English words evident at first glance being “Pediatrician Approved.” The erstwhile occupants had included two fairly small residents, so I figured this was no ordinary laundry detergent. I could not, off hand, recall seeing any TV commercials for Dreft. Besides, it was powder, which, for some reason, made me uncomfortable. I don’t know – maybe that’s a guy thing. It just seems to me that the chances of success are far higher if everything starts out as a liquid, if you know what I mean.

Miracle! A measuring cup! Clearly not the Whisk measuring cup, but a measuring cup nonetheless, with the words, in the King’s English, Small, Medium and Large. The powder itself was sufficiently powdery, that is to say not caked into a solid mass, so I took the plunge, so to speak.

Carefully removing the pipe from my mouth so as not to add any trace of ashes to the mix, in went a “medium” shot of Dreft, the habiliments (that’s an elegant term for underwear, though more inclusive) neatly distributed around that thing sticking up in the middle, a few twists of the dials, and WHAMMO, the water starts flowing nicely. I figured that if everything came out smelling like diapers I still had three days of clean underwear and I could just replace everything before I reached crisis stage.

I stood there long enough to see what would happen next, which was pretty impressive, I must say, although I was disappointed that everything stopped when I opened the top to look. I guess there's a good reason for that. Things really started moving when Tito Gobbi launched into the Te Deum from Tosca, so I high-tailed it upstairs to distract my mind by recording the adventure. Before Gobbi had belted out the final note, I had been up and down the stairs three times just to check on the progress. In the course of so doing, I discovered that, if I turned down the Puccini, I could sort of hear things from the basement, but I decided this just made me nervous, so I kept it cranked up. The neighbors are in for a rude awakening, or at least an education in Puccini when the weather warms up and we all open our windows.

Gradually, the Scotch lessened my urge to check on things until a rather startling gurgle, not unlike the noises made by those things in Yellowstone Park that bubble up from the ground, emanated from the kitchen. Aha! I knew exactly what was going on here! Quickly checking the kitchen sink to make sure the underwear was not trying to come up through the drain, I hurried downstairs to see what was up, or down, as the case may be. Just as I walked into the mystery machine room, the thing kicked into the spin cycle. I resisted the urge to take a looksee, fearing that it might somehow throw things off schedule or something, and returned to the safety of my computer.

When I had processed a day’s worth of spam and legitimate e-mail, in the approximate ratio of 120 to 1, the Puccini came to a temporary end, and an ominous silence emanated (or did not, it was hard to tell) from the basement. I scurried down to discover that the washer had apparently completed its work. It was totally silent, and I dared to raise the top. Everything was properly and, if I may speak humbly, symmetrically arranged around the perimeter, having spun its heart out.

The worst was over. I flopped everything into the dryer, selected what appeared to be a reasonable setting – warm, but not too warm, dry, but not terribly so, I think it was, and headed back upstairs for a couple of hangers. Yes, I knew that the trousers and especially the shirt had to be rescued and hung up before the perm press acted on the wrinkles.

If I turn the Puccini all the way down and lean towards the top of the stairs, I can hear the thing cranking away. I’m quite confident that things are going to turn out fine, but just to make sure, I’m going to refresh the Scotch a bit. I’ll keep you posted.