A new post, wherein I discuss irony, and lady business.

I woke up with a start at 4 this morning. I reached down a hand and discovered that despite doubling up on extra protection, Aunt Flo had extended her visit and soaked through my sheet and thick mattress pad. I woke my husband up with a swear word. (Never fear, though, somehow my muumuu escaped unscathed.)

On a normal day, I would have been irritated, but would have immediately thrown the mess in the wash, after my husband woke up for real. But not today. Today I just bent over and took another beating from the irony stick.

On Tuesday, as I was waiting for the 6 yards of eyelet I had just dyed navy to finish washing, I noticed things inside the washer weren't spinning. I pulled the fabric out, hoped it had been rinsed enough, and threw in the dryer. I tried starting a couple different cycles on the washer, but to no avail. The tub just wasn't moving. And it probably hadn't been moving for a while, because when I checked on the fabric in the dryer, I found it had dyed the whole tub blue. That was easily fixed. The washer not so much. No repair person for a week.

So we vowed to try and make it a low laundry week. Bracken was even going to cut back on his fresh towel every day habit. This vow, of course, meant that Addie immediately had an accident on the bathroom rug. And has pooped in her panties every day since. There was one day when she pooped in the potty first thing in the morning. I thought, Hooray! We're in the clear for the day, since she usually only poops once. Except that that day, with irony coaching over her shoulder, she also pooped in her swimsuit and her panties. Any consideration I ever gave to cloth diapers is now gone. I can't give up on the potty training since it has taken us so long to get this far and on the whole, she really is doing well. But everyday it gets harder and harder not to call the poop by it's bluer name.

And then I go and make the biggest mess my sheets have seen since we were newlyweds.

Tonight, for the first time since I was a missionary, I will be trucking all the worst stuff down to the laundromat, or washeteria as they were known in Texas. I know I'll get some looks when I wear gloves to load all my stuff. I might even have to go outside to escape the looks, and the smell that will probably linger. But right outside the laundromat is our favorite doughnut store, and I really don't need that temptation, so . . .

But all these messes are not the biggest irony. No, not by far. On Sunday night I was chatting with a couple friends online. It turned out one, who has 6 small kids, had had a broken washer for some time. The other friend let me know where we could pick up a free one that night. I sent Bracken out with friend #1's husband and they went and picked it up. As I was chatting with her, I said, "I can't imagine have 6 kids and not having a working washing machine."

And while I was still patting myself on the back for helping this friend out, BAM. Down came the irony stick.

In the future, I will only use the phrase, "I can't imagine . . ." in potentially positive situations. Such as:

I can't imagine having a million dollars.
I can't imagine being trim and fit and not having to work at it.
I can't imagine feeling well rested.

I'm still hesitant though. That irony stick is sneaky. I bet it will still find a way to brain me. And this time, it might hurt my muumuu, too.