Cursed Tongue: Bulk Savings, Bulk Mistakes

Posted by CursedTongue on March 9, 2006

My husband and I recently did one of the things we could only dream about when we were mere renters — join Costco. As anyone who’s been to Costco knows, the aisles are fraught with hazards. In a place already packed with people gawking at 30 roll packs of paper towels precariously looming overhead, the wide walkways were just screaming for tables displaying sweaty mini-wieners roasting in chafing dishes.

For the third time on one particular visit, the Costco employees gently entreated us to temporarily vacate an aisle, and as I obediently left, I looked back up over my shoulder wondering what the odds were that I would be crushed to death by a pallet of refried beans.

One of our first Costco rights of passage was the purchase of a 300 fluid ounce bottle of laundry detergent. That’s over two gallons, an estimated 96 loads of laundry. For the two of us at approximately two loads of laundry per week, it would have lasted us almost a year. The 300 fluid ounce laundry detergent jugs are so big they have taps, so one can conveniently leave the mammoth heavy things on a shelf and fill the accompanying measuring cup to their heart’s content.

Since I have a tall washing machine I put the jug on top of that, instead of the shelf. I love my washing machine. The engine runs smooth; and that baby purrs almost as softly as a hybrid automobile. Because we have the Cadillac of washing machines, I left the bottle of laundry detergent on top of it. Surely, the bottle that had dislocated my shoulder was heavy enough to remain in place on top of the washer.

The other day I threw in some laundry and then went about my other household chores. I was outside watering the dry spots on the grass that we have a sprinkler system for, and I heard a little “bink” noise in the laundry room. “That must be the fabric softener ball,” I thought. But upon entering the house I could see I was horribly mistaken. There was a blue puddle filling the laundry room, expanding into the hallway and threatening my vacuum and the living room carpet.

My instinct was to throw towels at the problem, which I quickly found was unwise. Three big bath towels were saturated in moments and I didn’t have a no-drip solution for transporting them over carpet to the bathtub. It was patently obvious that I had made the second rookie mistake of the day. I should have gathered my wits, and plotted my cleaning strategy, instead of letting the abyss of domestic hopelessness open up under me and fling me into panic mode. This was my first domestic catastrophe, not involving fire, in a long time. The fire extinguisher wasn’t going to do me any good this time. So, I was on my knees scooping the syrupy liquid into a bucket with my hands.

Unable to reach the center of Lake Sudsy, I had to traverse the slippery threshold of the laundry room. Despite crouching and leaning into the doorjamb I fell on my behind and cut my hand. Salt has nothing on laundry soap for aggravating a wound. Once I was inside of the laundry room, I noticed that there were splashes of laundry soap everywhere. And by everywhere, I mean it was on both sides of the door, on the wall behind the door, and in various spots all over the walls, some very near the ceiling. I suspected that the detergent that had hit the ceiling had dripped down, leaving only a thin residue, which dried into invisibility.

Notwithstanding the desperate wailing and moaning, eventually the puddle was shallow enough to require the use of a squeegee I bought, never thinking at the time that it would be this handy. I used two additional towels to wipe up what the squeegee had left, and between my husband and myself we mopped the floor five times and sponged the walls down twice. I stripped and showered, employing a loofa and a nailbrush in a feeble attempt to extract the detergent from my hands.

The good news is that the laundry room smells Spring-Time Fresh and we won’t need to add soap to the mopping water for the next three years. I feel fully justified in my reluctance to toss out old towels. And I think I’ve finally given up the notion that I would eventually grow out of being a domestic cosmic joke. All hail the mighty squeegee.

- Sarah Letnes

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