Mechanical Age II - Saving the Christmas Linens

Happy Winter Solstice 2025

We’re on Day 3 of the December Deluge of 2025, the La Nina which shall end by . . . Boxing Day?

On Saturday, the RAINY COLD DARK WINTER SOLSTICE NEW MOON conditions took their toll on me.  I didn’t hit the wall; that wet wall hit me.

The weather continues to sabotage my Christmas meal planning, but, on Saturday morning, I decided to go all-out:  Cook a turkey, without stuffing, in honor of Our Elected Idiot Officials in California.  (In the summer, I bar-b-que a chicken to pay them homage.)

On the spur-of-the-moment, I took a stand to wash the Noel Night tablecloth and napkins, made of gorgeous linen and purchased from one of the hard-working and innovative linen-lady-vendors in Lithuania — 10 years ago.

I’m still encountering fabric goods from the Peach House that haven’t yet been laundered, after being lovingly packed into boxes in 2017, stored in mini-storage (which used to be a safe place) from 2018-2020, and then transported into my newly constructed Dream House, post-late December 2020, as in throughout the year 2021.

We officially celebrate, each year, the Day Before New Year’s Day, cause that’s the bright-light-date when the guys from PG&E arrived on-site.  That day was, as I recall, another rain-soaked day.  And Larkhaven became the latest domicile in the Rural Electrification Project in Gavinville.

I boldly avow that Doing the Laundry by Machine has never been my strongest suit.  I much prefer washing-by-hand.  My washing-machine habits, as a single woman, were atrocious.  I’d haul a laundry bag, stuffed with clothes and linens, into the Laundry Room of the Apartment Building, which was usually located in the basement.  I would then proceed to load the machine with the fabric articles about to be victimized by Tide Laundry Soap.

Nowadays, there’s:

Tide Original, Tide Free & Gentle (for sensitive skin), Tide Ultra Oxi, and Tide Pods, which come in multiple scents and specialized versions like Tide Boost for extra stain removal.

That paragraph was copied directly from my Brave browser AI, and it’s a heck of a lot more accurate than the copy-and-paste paragraph of any online Hard News-site!  “Journalists” have gone from being scribblers, to incompetent copy-and-pasters.

The Tide of my era would have stripped paint from furniture!  Nevertheless, I seemed to have preferred this caustic cleaning product over all others, including a blue-liquid phosphorescent one that permanently stained the skin of friend whose “friends” doused him with it one Halloween night.

Perhaps the oceanic name and coastal sensibility of TIDE appealed to this Jersey Gal, living inland in Sacramento. Then again, it might have been that Bulls-Eye.

One night, when I was in my dating phase with Dear Husband, I asked him what his plans were for that evening.

“I’m doing the whites,” he replied.

I definitely didn’t want to interfere with that delicate procedure.

Yes, until I, the Perfunctory Laundress, experienced the Laundry-Snob in Future Dear Husband, it truly did not occur to me to SORT THE LAUNDRY.  Lugging the stuffed pillowcase down to the Laundry Room was enough work.  Blue jeans got mixed in with polyester blouses (Hand-Washing I reserved for natural fibers, of which there were very few), socks, bath and kitchen towels.

(FYI:  SORTING THE WHITES now bears a Trigger Warning for online language-translation sites, as do “moron”, “retarded” and “crippled”.)

Dear Husband observed me once, or twice, Doing the Laundry; and he married me anyway!

I greatly improved my machine-laundering skills after marriage. I got to be a real pro after my children came along to confront me with the inescapable necessities of cleanliness which, after all, is extremely close to Godliness.

I did not, however, grieve that portion of my mothering-phase when the Adolescent Offspring started to do their own laundry.  I showed them how to sort the clothes, as if the idea were all mine!

On to the Lithuanian Linen Linens!  (Linen has to be gently hand-washed, and then rinsed, in lukewarm water. The excess water must be squeezed out — NOT WRUNG — before placing the fabric on a drying rack, or outdoors on the line, to dry. No sun exposure. Yesterday, however, I yielded to the reality of a COLD, DAMP, DARK house.)

I lovingly placed the linens in the washing machine, pulled out the detergent-dispenser-drawer, and poured into the small compartment a minimal amount of liquid-soap — not the ORVIS for hand-washing, which I have to toss into the drum, and which never fully disintegrates.  I then poured, into the separate appropriate compartment, a small amount of some cold-water-bleach.

It is only today, 24 hours later, that I have revealed to Dear Husband, this factoid, which he identifies as THE fatal flaw, and the causative factor in this catastrophe of laundry mechanics.  Turns out what I thought was bleach, cause it says CLOROX on the label, is not bleach at all.  CLOROX II is laundry soap.  According to Laundry-Snob Dear Husband, it’s high-octane detergent.

I set the water on COLD, and walked out of the Mud Room (which is also the Pup Room), in search of courage to immerse self in shower-water.  An hour later, I discovered Dear Husband in a state of busy and active frustration.  He stopped a moment to marvel that my newly-washed hair had dried so quickly, in the dark, damp air in the bathroom.

“Newly washed and dried hair should not look like this, cause I haven’t washed my hair.  There’s too much water involved.  What are you doing?”

“I am rescuing the Christmas linens.”

Here begins the tale of Mechanical Age II.  (Also see Mechanical Age.)

After I’d casually walked away from unknowingly sabotaging the washer, it began to beep loudly.  Dear Husband responded to the distress signals which were also throwing error codes on the digital display window.

He tried to clear one error code, hopefully resetting the Made-in-the-USA Maytag.  That code indicated an over-suds malfunction.  He then cleared the code, but the lock on the door would not clear.

He unplugged the machine to reset the computer module.

The LOCKOUT persisted.

At that point, Dear Hubby went online to find out how to CLEAR the lockout.  He discovered a video that involved removal of the top of the washing machine.  He slid the machine out from the wall, got out his repair tools, removed the top of the machine, and disengaged the door lock.

The Laundry-Snob arm reached inside the machine to pull the emergency latch.  Voilà, the door opened sesame!

The Model # was retrieved, the lid to the machine put back on, and the Mighty Maytag slid back into place.

Dear Husband then ran the linens through their properly calibrated rinse cycle.  After the dryer did its magic, I folded the napkins and set the tablecloth over a chair to relax.  At that point, we all needed a chair for relaxation.

The great unknown in this cleaning caper was the MODEL# — because the MODEL# is located inside the door.  Which, during this digital drama in the Mudroom at Larkhaven, was LOCKED.

The crucial online instructional video featured a Maytag washer that just happened to be Our Maytag model.  Otherwise, who knows how the Electronic Mandate Experts would have bolloxed as much as possible of My Christmas in America?

The technical ethersphere teacher was wearing a Maytag hat and shirt, but I do not think he was an Authorized Maytag Repairman.  I’m sure a Karen somewhere will call the Authorities on this infraction of her beloved idiotic edicts.

The original Maytag repairman, actor Jesse White, was known as “Ol Lonely” in the fabulous tv commercials from 1967-1988.  He’d fall asleep on-the-job, for lack of repair call-crisis.  The current, and continuing repair-call crisis, stars all of The Nanny-State Responsibles — corrupt, comatose, daft and asleep on-the-job!