Some random date because I don’t know what date we got here, 1922
This will be my first diary entry dedicated to permanently recording our time-transcending experiences here in 1922. Okay, so I picked a really ostentatious diary title, not to mention a semi-insane diary entry date. All I’d have to do is walk down to the end of our sidewalk and ask a passerby what date it is, but that would be too practical an accomplishment for one such as myself. Mick would do it. He’s ADORABLY practical that way. I try to be more like Mick in these ways, I really, really do…but then I worry that he wouldn’t love me anymore if I got all normal and predictable and rational…so immediate reversion to semi-irrationality occurs.
We’ve been here three days, as I just mentioned to my future self in the above introductory paragraph, and thus far much we’ve gotten quite a bit done. The outhouse is happily rattlesnake-free, and we managed to buy a mostly-okay 1922 version of toilet paper so chafing may be kept to a minimum. A few other house necessities were also purchased with the money we stole from underneath Eva and Timothy’s mattress…we’ll pay them back, I swear! One of those necessities was laundry detergent…which I’m about to use…and am hoping intensely that I don’t somehow blow up an outbuilding by accidentally combining it with gasoline or moonshine or something. Is that possible? Can laundry detergent combine with combustible liquids in an inflammatory way? I failed chemistry in high school. Taking it in college was about as ludicrous a concept as me applying for a NASA internship. Am pretty sure I WOULD’VE found a way to blow up Houston.
So after lunch today, Mick very kindly and fairly grilled me about my clothes-washing plans for that afternoon. “You’ve read the directions on the detergent box, right?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a guy. Guys never read or ask for directions.”
“I’m not the one who failed high school chemistry.”
“No,” I mumbled, “You probably helped write the friggin’ textbook.”
“I heard that.”
“You were supposed to, smarty pants. And yes, I did read the directions. They’re like all other detergent box directions. You dump the detergent in the washing area receptacle basin thingy with the water and hit the start button…except there’s no start button, there’s a crank-operated agitator thing that probably won’t do as good a job as the start button.”
Mick stared at me with a slightly unconvinced expression. “And you’re going to use water, right?”
How well he knew me. “What else would I use?”
Now he was staring at me with complete disbelief. “Well, let’s see…how many liquid substances might be lying around in the shed?”
I was so tempted to pout, and would have, had he not been entirely right. “Touche, my love. Yes, I’ll make sure it’s water.”
“And don’t test it by drinking it!”
“Maybe you’d like to fill it with water before heading out to the cotton field?”
He exhaled a breath of relief and brandished a bright smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”
So Mick proceeded to follow me to the washing shed building thing, his eyes never leaving the instructions on the back of the box as he walked. I wondered how he never stumbled once because, if I tried to read and walk at the same time, I’d have stumbled face first into the gravel thereby making a bloody, macerated mess of my face. Once he had surveyed the washing situation, added water and the prescribed amount of detergent, and given me strict orders not to add anything else, he kissed the top of my head and retreated to the cotton patch. I plopped down on the little stool next to the washing “machine” and proceeded to grab the first article of clothing from the basket. I plunged it into the sudsy cleaning solution and grabbed the crank to start dirt-defying agitation. So far so good.
I’d washed a couple of dresses and a pair of socks before the usual hell broke loose. Hell followed me like the proverbial hound of ancient lore, except MY hell hound had rabies for sure…and possibly he mange. After depositing a second clean sock into the “wet clothing to be hung on the line for drying” basket, I blithely reached into the “still dirty” basket and pulled out the next item to be washed. It felt a bit odd, but then again, everything felt odd around here. Upon depositing it into the water and starting the cranky mechanism, a blood-curdling scream erupted from the soapy depths. A wet and very angry something exploded from beneath white foam and clawed its way onto my lap. Holy freaking crap, the critters of 1922 had united in a good faith effort to murder me! Seriously, the Mafia should consider adding a few furry assassins to their hitman ranks…or hitcreature ranks.
Not surprisingly, Mick had started running furiously in my direction upon hearing that banshee scream. When he arrived at the wash shed, he disbelievingly observed me locked in mortal combat with a psychotic–but very clean–possum in a state of understandable chagrin. He had clawed the front of Eva’s dress to shreds and was obviously considering starting in on my face when Mick’s sudden appearance seemed to scare it over the edge of consciousness. The thing went rigid, I guessed with shock, and fell backward into the wash water. My hands were bloody from fending off possum talons, and Eva’s dress was destined for the rag bag, but otherwise all was well.
Mick crossed his arms across his chest, nodded with resignation, and even permitted a tiny grin of amusement. “Maytag never mentioned what to do in this scenario.”
Diabloggical Me 