life

For anyone who doesn't believe life is a meaty-finger-jabbing smirky guy who loves perpetrating twisted acts of irony on innocent people, "getaloadadis."

"Whatdaya! Whatdaya! Do I look lika villain to youse?" life protests, lighting a fat cigar. "Is it my fault she sets herself up fordese tings? Take dat night last week- how could I resist? I mean, you gotta do what you gotta do."

So last Thursday night I'm in the laundry room with my mountain of reeking sheets, pillowcases, blankets, mattress pads, and other "kitty litter." "Just how much will this large capacity washing machine hold?" I wonder, adding another large scoop of detergent to a tub brimming with cat-soaked sheets and blankets.

Minutes pass, then I lift the lid to make sure all is well. "Why does this blanket keep twisting around the sheets like that? They'll never get clean this way," I mutter.

Turning the machine off, I wrestle with the queen-size blanket and queen-size sheets which have become hopelessly tangled together and have, in the heat of battle, wrapped themselves tightly around the agitator. Clinging on for dear life, they fight me tooth and toenail as I struggle, head inside the washer and arms wet to the shoulders, to pry them loose. So tight is the blanket's death grip on the sheet that big, bulbous, air-filled sheet bubbles protrude from it in various places like blue cotton goiters. Panting, I struggle on.

"Yes!" I exclaim triumphantly, finally holding aloft a soapy, saturated blanket which by now weighs a good 10 pounds. However, my triumph quickly turns to panic as I realize I have nowhere to put this slimy, dripping mess. On the floor? No, it's already morphed into a giant puddle from the enormous amount of water now running down my arms and legs. Into the dryer? Drat! Still full of yesterday's clean socks and underwear. I knew I should have folded them last night! The laundry basket? I hurl it in that direction. Even though the basket is virtually a collection of holes held together by a little plastic, it's all I've got.

Slip-sliding back to the Maytag, I prepare to finish washing the soapy sheets. The blanket will have to wait its turn.

"Thunk." I push in the knob to restart the wash cycle.

Silence.

"Thunk, thunk." I pull the knob out and push it in again.

Silence.

"Splosh." I attempt to rearrange the wet sheets in hopes that this is the problem.

"Thunk." Me trying the knob again.

"Thunk, thunk."

"Thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk!"

As I drive to the Luxury Wash laundromat late that night, a 33-gallon trash bag full of soggy bedding in my trunk, two questions keep running through my mind: why does life sound like a Bronx thug and why has he got it in for me?