Comfort Me With Comfortable

I am a creature of comfort.  Not a go out and snort something up my nose have to escape reality kind of comfort.  More of a let me live in cotton and fleece with a nice hot cup of tea kind of comfort.  Now I don’t go walking around in Birkenstocks with socks and a fleece mumuu but I do love a good pair of comfy jeans that scoop my butt, soft socks that wrap my feet in happiness and warm mug of Vanilla Oolong to complete the experience.  Throw on my tried and true fleece jacket and a blanket and I’m in heaven.  I will qualify this by stating that comfort is dependant on the season although the tea is non-negotiable any time of year.  Yesterday, my comfort was disrupted and I was reminded of how important it is.

Our house is a mish mosh of cast offs and finds.  This includes our furniture, appliances, clothes – we aren’t fussy.  In fact we haven’t bought a TV in 20 years.  Obviously for us HD stands for “highly dumb” to spend tons of money just to watch TV.  Having said that, we have been fortunate to be the recipients of some most excellent donations which include a full teak dining room set, a Kitchenaid dishwasher and a large screen TV.  Not bad for having name brands or fancy stuff so low on our list.  One of our appliance donations was our washer and dryer.  We were fortunate enough to receive my mother’s when she had to downsize but they soon had to go to the great recycler in the sky.  Our neighbour was then getting rid of a relatively new energy-efficient pair of clothes cleaners and so with our usual enthusiasm we said yes.

Earlier this month our second or possibly third hand washing machine started making trouble.  I noticed that the spin cycle was refusing to spin on its own resulting in a soggy mess of material once the machine had drained.  So with a little sigh and a prayer, I manually asked our faithful washer to spin and off it went.  Inside my head, a little voice was saying, “Your appliance gravy train is running out my friend.”  Not so, said I for I am married to a Millwright ! Tada!  He who is handy with the tools and bangy things.  So in a casual manner, I mentioned to the Millwright that the washer was acting funny.  Little did I know what was to come.

My Millwright is a fabulous man who runs on Jamaica time.  I mean no cultural disrespect.  My Millwright just operates as though he is perpetually winding his way along a tropical road and will get there when he gets there.  This applies to things getting done around the house.  Lots of 1/2 done projects and unattached baseboards.  Don’t get me wrong – we are not living in some hole ridden, floorboards rotting out, board over a broken window hovel.  Our home just has a general state of unfinished-ness which is slowly driving me insane.  Like might learn how to cut a miter joint kind of insane.  So I was a bit reluctant to allow him near my beloved washer which does a fabulous job of assisting me in my comfortable-ness.

I come downstairs one day and the washer is looking decidedly taken apart, at least the dial area is, which means my Millwright has begun his journey down the tropical road.  I could be without a washer for a long time if I’m not careful.  Now my Millwright was just giving me a false alarm this time and the washer was still operable.  Phew.  The next time I was not so lucky …

As I walked a jaunty walk through the house on a general tidy mission, I notice that the Millwright is in the laundry room.  That in and of itself is not suspect as he is proficient in the laundry department, but what is suspect are the atypical laundry noise.  There are tool-like noises emanating from my laundry room.  This does not bode well at all.  Sure enough – my beloved washer who has served me well is sitting with its control panel decidedly knobless and with its operational devices open to view.  And the Millwright is messing with it.  Now this again is a good thing as it saves money on repairmen but the Millwright was a bit sneaky.  With repairmen you get warning that they are coming and might be able to sneak a load of laundry in before it is rendered useless.  Not so with the Millwright.  He snuck his laundry in and ignored my little pile of “dainties” that was requiring a spin in my washers embrace.  This leads in to the interruption of my comfort.

Like most women, I keep some reserve dainties.  These are dainties that will do in a pinch but are not dainties that you pull out at any other time.  I believe dainties should perform the same function as my jeans: to scoop my butt most gently and not feel like some errant floss has invaded a most private area.  That to me is just wrong.  It goes directly against the comfort priority and is one that I avoid at all costs.  This also applies to lace.  Who on God’s green earth ever thought that lace with all its itchiness and lack of elasticity should ever be made in to something to scoop your butt ? I shake my head in disbelief.  The Millwrights’ act of sneakiness drove me to lace which is just about unforgivable.

Now some would argue that as a fully functional, intelligent woman who can take 30 girls camping I should be able to see the value and practical applications of a laundromat.  This takes me right of comfortable and in to eww gross territory.  The thought of washing my dainties where someone unrelated to me has had dainties swished about just makes me nauseous.  Who knows what lurks in the bowels of the machine just waiting to attach itself to my lovely cotton comfiness ? This was not an acceptable solution to the problem.  So I held out and subjected myself to lace.  For a whole day.  Lace that itched and rode and did nothing to add to the comfort of my butt.  I did not get the good end of the bargain in this standoff.

This situation got me to thinking about comfort and what lengths I will go to for comfort.  I am not a slave to fashion although I do enjoy nice clothes that are not fleece and have a stylish air about them.  I am not a slave to makeup although I do brush on a bit of a face every morning.  This is optional if I have no where special to go as I’m just as comfortable without my war paint on.  I am trying not to be a slave to my grey hair although at 41 it is hard to be comfortable with that.  Coloring still figures prominently in my future although it might become comfortable sooner than later.

My lovely boots 🙂

In the end, I went back to my roots (not the grey ones) and did some dainties in the laundry tub.  It was surprisingly cathartic and rewarding to know that my little hands were capable of washing and wringing some comfort in to my life.  Lucky for the Millwright my little hands can’t quite fit around his huge neck or something else might have been rung.  Damn his trips to the gym and interest in bodybuilding anyway.

Oh yeah - that is my man 🙂

So in the interest of self-preservation, I’ve come to terms with the laundry tub method of continuing my comfort in the short-term at least as far as dainties are concerned.   There are enough things in this life designed specifically to make me uncomfortable: bad drivers, loud off-key karaoke, crickets loose in my house (another story), clutter and of course lace dainties.  Since the source of my comfort lies in butt cupping cotton dainties and comfy jeans, I will feverently hope that the new bits and pieces arrive for my washer sooner than later.  Or I might just try to fit my hands around the Millwrights’ neck after all…

3 thoughts on “Comfort Me With Comfortable

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