For the life of me I just can’t understand why I can not get such a simple thing right. Using the right amount of detergent in the washing machine, that is. First washing disaster of the new year, and I had to get up at 6 am to experience that.
All I ever desired was to wash the foot-mats that had accumulated reservoirs of dust, having been at the licking end of my boots, day in and day out. It had been some weeks since their last outing in the washing machine, which really is a relic from the time Neil Armstrong and his buddies conquered the moon.
Anyway, cut to the present, and I heaped what I thought was a decent amount of detergent for my front-loader – two level tea-spoons of the detergent. Okay, maybe I added another half tea-spoon, but it wasn’t much to look at when I poured it into the detergent compartment. And the mats were really dirty, so they could use a bit of extra washing, I reasoned.
Except that my reasoning apparently cut no ice with that contraption that shudders, and spins and tumbles and dries like,……oh well, I forget, family audience and Kapil Sibal (India’s new ‘censorship’ minister, for those living outside India) ensure I stop right here in my tracks and think of another analogy!
Fifteen to twenty minutes into the washing cycle, with me having comfortably snoozed off again till the time daylight broke, I heard some strange gurgling noises – certainly not the kind a new-born baby makes. These were more like grunts, forcing me to throw away the sheet off me, get up and walk to the kitchen (yes, the washing machine is placed in the kitchen, for want of space!) and horror of horrors, the entire kitchen floor was covered in a white, foamy mass.
I give up, I just give up! Household work and men just don’t seem to get along well with each other now, do they? I mean, would these constitute as irreconcilable differences, often cited in marital break-ups? I just couldn’t understand why the washing machine couldn’t adjust to just a wee bit extra detergent and simply wash it off? I mean, a washing machine is supposed to wash, right, rather than just spew it out like an infant who spits out anything he or she doesn’t like.
I am just looking at the flooded floor, the mops are out in the balcony, and a weary me is just wondering: did I get out of the wrong side of my bed today or what. Is there a deity for washing machines that I need to propitiate? I am ready to convert.