Get a Load of This
When we lived in the ’burbs, the weirdest things I ever found in the washing machine were earrings, car keys, and the occasional cell phone. Oh, and money. Once I found a hundred dollar bill. You bet I kept it; it’s not my fault those 2T OshKosh B’Gosh pants have shallow pockets.
If you live on a farm, you’re probably immune to the wonders that await me in my Whirlpool. But if you’re a city girl, suburbanite, or former suburbanite-turned-quasi-country-girl like me, hold onto your delicates. Following is a rundown of just a few of the things I’ve found in the laundry lately. The bad news? It includes goat teeth. The good news? Apparently they make “Clorox with Tartar Control.” Who knew?
I advocate brushing with bleach about as much as I advocate suffering through laundry day without an adult beverage. Which is to say, not at all. My feeling is, a cold beer, glass of wine, or frozen margarita makes it much easier to deal with such discoveries as …
An egg. Of course by the time I found it, it was as if I used fabric softener made of mucus. Trust me when I tell you I went through a whole lot of Tide on that load.
A three-inch nipple. My husband says it’s for the bottles he uses to feed the baby bulls. I say it’s a hint and there’s no way I’m going over a C-cup when that Capital One cosmetic loan finally comes through.
Poultry bands. The ankle bracelets of the banty set. Made of brightly colored aluminum and numbered for quick and easy “future dinner” identification.
Range cubes. The dog biscuits of the bovine world. My husband keeps them in his pockets to feed the “girls” and then forgets they’re there. They spill out into the wash, crumble, and coat the clothing like chicken cutlets. This usually inspires me to whip up a batch, which interestingly enough makes the herd very happy. Oh my God. You think maybe they’re manipulating me?
A hypodermic needle. No, no. I haven’t taken to giving myself Botox injections. Yet. The needle’s for medicating the cows. And since the heifers have halitosis, not HIV, there’s no point in using a fresh needle for each prick. Of course there’s also no point in keeping the vet kit in his vest pocket, but that’s something I’ll pursue with my prrrrr … err, husband, the next time it happens.
Castration bands. They slip these on the bulls’ you know, and it makes them shrivel up and, well, you know. Only I didn’t know. I thought, “Oh looky! Hair bands at the bottom of the dryer!” Maybe there ought to be a one drink limit on my laundry day libations.
A deer bone. At first I thought it was a regular dog bone. One of those flavored jobs you buy by the dozen, divvy up among the beasts, and spend the rest of the day watching them square off, steal from each other, and cry. (And no, the dogs’ behavior isn’t much better.) But upon closer, and I mean thisclosetocoronary inspection, I realized it used to be a real, live bone. One somebody found and couldn’t resist keeping. Is it any wonder I can’t resist dunking my progeny in Purell?
Ammunition. That’s right, a live round. In my washing machine. Talk about a nice, clean shot. Sorry. Couldn’t resist. I’ve yet to have my morning margarita.
Ear tags. Like poultry bands, but for cattle. I no longer freak when I find them in the wash, unless there’s a tidbit of ear still attached. That really gets my goat.
And speaking of goats, I honestly don’t know how Duke lost two teeth, or how they wound up at the bottom of the washer (though I sense the presence of shallow pockets…again), but for the full ten seconds I stood there screaming, I was certain they came from my fourth grader. They didn’t of course. They were way too white to be Cuy’s. I love my son, but the kid can’t brush worth a damn. And since they really don’t make Clorox with Tartar Control, I can come to just three conclusions. One, these suckers definitely once belonged to our Boer Billy goat. Two, my little man’s plan was to try and trick the Tooth Fairy. And three, if this is what he’ll resort to, maybe it’s time I come clean. And give the kid back his Benjamin.