As some of my friends know, I rant a lot about my laundry. Which is a zen way of letting out my frustrations on other things that I can't find words to express. So what will it be now?

Well you see, I'm not exactly well versed in the arts of cloth-scrubbing, as the medieval people must've had some technique not passed down to the contemporary cave man like me. I detest owning clothes that are purely white. Or at least patches of it is white. Why, you say? Heck, not only do stains just defile the whole fabric, but because what was once white when I got it, will forever be off-white after a few trips to the sud bucket. There's also the matter of a few articles of clothing that won't absolve their bizarre scent appeal (a couple, which are my favorites, still have in them the linger of my old Joop perfume, to think that was years ago!). See my dilemma?

I don't think there's any washing machine out there that can truly remove what needs to be purged. Unless ofcourse, if there's a supply of industrial strength detergent to go with it out there I could use. But idealism is best left to those who don't wash their own laundry. So the occasionally meticulous monster in me literally took matters into my own hands.

Yet, no matter how much love I put into the endeavor, futility seems to be the only existing word after each session. I could do this each time, but how long would my forbearance hold? Ack! Que horror.

I now leave you while my sanity is intact. Adieu.