In The Presence Of My Knuckles

Patience is like bread, I say –
I ran out of that yesterday.
- The Lemonheads

Due to some belt-tightening measures I’ve imposed on myself, I’ve taken to washing some of my own clothes on weekends instead of dumping them all at the nearest laundromat. The only drawback to this new scheme of mine is that apparently, doing the laundry requires strong, limber arms and a lot of leathery skin on both of your hands, excellent qualities which you will no doubt find in an ape.

Unfortunately, it’s just out of the question to ask your simian brethren to do your laundry: not only is it a deeply inhumane act fed by an avaricious brand of anthrocentrism, it is also nearly impossible to execute, since an ape would be rather hard to procure in these parts.

Haha, what a bunch of hooey! I was just checking whether or not I could still whip out that kind of bullshit. Girls and boys, this is what you learn in University: how to compose sentences you will, at best, only half-understand, the exact same stuff that can put you to sleep faster than a handful of Valiums will. Not that I’ve ever tried Valiums.

Nonetheless, I did mean what I said about not getting monkeys to do your laundry. It’s just not right, and if you’ll ask PETA or WWF about it, you’ll find that they will echo my sentiments about the subject. Also, I believe in kindness to animals (with the exception of roaches) – why else would I be friends with folks like Brian? I’M KIDDING.

Brian, you're embarrassing us.

All right, enough of that, I’ve taken too many detours from the actual topic. The point is that I do a quarter of my laundry now, and boy, it certainly is no picnic. For one, I have the weakest arms this side of the planet, and besides, I’ve never been pushed to wash my own clothes until recently. In other words, doing the laundry is a chore I’m generally unaccustomed to, not because I never do any chores, but mostly because I’m awfully picky about the domestic tasks I carry out.

For instance: it would take hours before you can convince me to do the dishes, that loathsome, loathsome chore. Conversely, I would most likely jump at the opportunity to sweep the yard and set the table, and I would probably weep veritable tears of joy if you ask me to iron your clothes, which is my favourite chore of all time.

Laundry was an altogether different matter, though, and hardly of any concern. Back home in Davao, there was always a helper or two who could take care of it, and if my Mom succeeded – as she did, time and again – in driving them away, a laundrywoman was around to catch the entire, cumbersome burden.

Now, on the other hand.

I just finished washing eight shirts, six pairs of socks, two pairs of shorts, and two skirts, AND MY FINGERS ARE BLEEDING. Holy fuck. I must have been halfway into the pile when I realized that the skin right under my nails was smarting like hell, and when I took a look at one of my fingers, I saw a delicate ribbon of blood unfurling through the suds. Fantastic, I thought. It was extremely lucky that I wasn’t a haemophiliac – otherwise, I would’ve ended up spraying my blood all over the fucking wash, in the tradition of Lupo the Butcher.




Going through the rest of the clothes was pure torment afterwards; I had never wanted rubber gloves so desperately in my life. My next mission, therefore, is to tramp over to the grocery store and get myself a good pair of rubber gloves. If I’m not using them for doing the laundry, I could always fill up the gloves with water, tie the ends with an elastic band, and voila! Instant makeshift water balloons! My sister had better watch out.

Once I regain a firmer toehold on my finances, though, I’m going to abandon the enterprise and let the laundromat have its way with my clothes. I mean, fuck this shit. I’m no hand model, but my fingers are too fucking important, you know? The hierarchy of needs must be preserved.
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