My Suds Story

There is something so utterly satisfying about doing the laundry.

I am normally not a lover of housework, and I only do the cleaning because it needs to get done. And because if there's something I hate more than housework, its dust. And dust bunnies. Ask Woogie, he has had the honor of clearing the room of dust bunnies during some of my cleaning sprees.

But talk to me about doing the laundry, and I can go on for hours.

Step One: Sort.

Sorting the whites from the medium-coloreds, and the medium-coloreds from the darks is a science in itself. Does the white shirt with the broad blue and red stripes count as a medium-colored item? Do Woog's mustard pair of shorts generously splattered with muddy chocolate milk stains count as a dark? What about Eli's collection of white cotton-weave snot cloths which on any given day collect a Jackon Pollock gallery of food stains and various body fluids? Much of the organizational skills I have are inspired from the sorting floor of our “backyard” laundry area.

Apart from unzipping the zippers and unbuttoning the bottons, turning out pockets are my particular favorite. I have a motley collection of coins, hair clips, candy wrappers, wads of tissue and various receipts. Once, even a dead spider. Unearthing this treasure trove twice a week brings out the pirate in me. Sometimes I am even secretively possessive of what I find, like the five hundred peso bill Atch left in the front pocket of one of his pants. Who knows one day I just might tell him. Maybe.

Step Two: Soak.

I prepare three huge soak tubs with water, throw in scoops of baking soda and half a packet of laundry powder. Here, my precious loads of laundry marinate, loosening the hold of dirt and grime, sweat and stains, while I am at the office, in a frenzy of anticipation to get home.

Step Three: First Wash.

While the first round of the wash churns in the disinfectant laundry bleach, I stare at the whirling vortex of the whirlpool, hypnotized. I am relaxed and unlimbered by the very swish and swirl of clothing, confident in my choice of laundry bleach (“guranteed to remove 99% of germs”), and at home in the acrid fumes of chlorine. In the whirr of the washing machine, I drift in daydreams, and the inklings of ideas are born.

My workshop

Step Four: Soap.

An end to the first wash comes and I lift the heavy water-logged pieces of clothing to change the water. This time around, the garments circle and brush against each other in a rink of soap bubbles (“whiter whites, brighter coloreds”). It is at this stage when I lift Atch's white t-shirts and sprinkle oxalic acid on the yellow deodorant stains at the armholes. I attack them with an old toothbrush, scrub against them with my water-wrinkled hands. “Why do your armpits get that way, 'Atch?” I asked him once. He only shrugged and reminded me to rub harder on the right-hand side, “I get darker stains there, “ he said. He is fortunate I am such a stickler for immaculate laundry.

Step Five: Rinse.

I unload the whites and manually rinse them through three tubs of water while the next load rolls around in the soapy wash. I could do the rinse cycle in the washing machine, of course, because denims are heavy and sheets even more so. But the sheer brute labor of manual rinsing is heaven-sent to flabby office-bound biceps and pecs (inhale while lifting one end of a blanket, exhale while slamming it down into the water. Repeat.). You can do squats while rinsing pants and bedsheets, too (stand while lifting clothing, squat down to bring item back into the tub. Repeat.). Great for glutes and quads. For best results, do manual rinsing when you're pissed at your husband. Beats taebo-ing a punching bag at the gym any time.

Step Six: Condition.

Finally, when all the suds have run out, a final rinse with fabric conditioner fills the air with sunshine fresh. Often, at this stage, one or another of the kids will stop by for a chat, a hug or a kiss. Sometimes the husband will drop by with a mug of coffee, or to grope and squeeze. Funny how fabric conditioner is right up there with the top comfort scents that always remind one of home. Or sex.

Step Seven. Hang Up To Dry.

The air is redolent with the scent of Downy, and the tropical sun beats heavily down on the clotheslines, sending smoky mists of evaporation up into the atmosphere. I take a step back and sigh in tired achy satisfaction: one line of whites, one line of coloreds, one of darks, and the rest decked out in sheets. All neatly waving in the wind.

I could hire my sister-in-law's laundrywoman, of course. Save me some time and the inevitable rough hands. But I get off on doing the laundry, just as 'Atch gets his kicks from washing the car spotless. And also because I am such a cheapskate. Let’s not forget that.

But most importantly, no one does this better than I do. No one.

In the afternoon, when the fresh clean and fragrant results are taken down, they are folded neatly into a hamper, ready for pressing.

But that is another story.