Letter To My Washing Machine
Dear Kenmore Washer 26-49032,
First of all, I’d like to say thank you. For years now, almost three, you’ve run through cycle after cycle, at the minimum three to four per week, asking for very little in return and for those small payments, you have returned to me a plentiful bounty of clean clothes. Some of those batches were admittedly far too large and for that I’d like to apologize. Those were almost always the husband’s batches. Believe me, I’ve tried explaining so many things about laundry to him. The simple fact that there’s a limit to how much should be put in you seems to be one step too far for him.
I still greatly appreciate everything you’ve done for me. No matter what kind of canine bodily fluid or semi-solid the items have on them when I give them to you, you always return them back to me as though they were almost fresh from the store. Charlie is definitely out to make your life more difficult. Don’t feel too bad. He’s tried to trip and kill us, then turns around to be demanding as hell twice a day. At least he doesn’t expect food from you.
I know you don’t expect much from me and that I’ve been neglectful. I swear every time I run out of cleaner for you that I’m going to remember to buy more at the store and clean you more frequently, but it almost always gets forgotten behind the necessity of buying food and paper products. I know it’s important, so I’ll try harder. I truly promise I will try harder. And if I forget, I’ll search the Internet far and wide to come up with a home remedy that will clean you up. I promise that at least once or twice a quarter I’ll pull back your gaskets and give them a good scrub. I know the husband never does that and that’s because he’s a wussy-face. He’s scared of what he might find there and you know that it’s never nice, so don’t hold it against him. Either that or he doesn’t even realize they need to be cleaned.
I have only one favor to ask of you. I don’t know where you put them because I can’t ever find a cause much less a solution, but I’d like you to please, please, please stop stealing my socks. You never seem to steal the husbands’ socks. You only steal mine and then you only steal them one at a time, leaving a sad and lonely sock that needs therapy for its separation anxiety. I know that everybody has this problem, but that’s because your kind suffer from being demented or possessed. If I need to, just let me know, and I’ll bring in a priest to perform an exorcism; whatever it takes I’ll do it because I only have two pair left and it gets cold here in the winter. I need a few more decent pair of socks, so if you wouldn’t mind spitting back those that you’ve taken, that would be greatly appreciated.
Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. There’s no mistaking where they’re going. There’s really nowhere else they could be, so let’s not demean each other by acting like you don’t know what I’m insinuating here. Just give up the goods or else. I’ll keep up the occasional ammonia treatments and regular cleanings, if you’ll just give back the damned socks!
Thanks much for your time and attention. Now get back to work!