As all travelers know, washing the dirty laundry that has accumulated during the trip is one of the uglier aspects of returning home. I tackled mine as soon as the airport returned my missing luggage, which was a triumph of will indeed, considering I just wanted to sleep, not separate the lights from the darks. By Saturday night, I’d washed all the clothes that still smelled like holidays (sand and cinnamon with a hint of cumin, if you’re wondering) and I was feeling quite pleased with my accomplishments.
Since my current tenant is male, I make a point of not hanging my delicates on the rack over the washing machine with the other clothes I can’t tumble dry. As much as I know it’s a business relationship and we simply share the laundry room, I feel like hanging my undies to dry in a public location is revealing just a little too much about myself. When the load of lights was finished, I tossed my old lady beige bra over the shower curtain bar in my bathroom. After the less robust darks were washed, I was in a hurry and just looped one strap of my black bra over the doorknob in my kitchen.
The dollhouse is a classy place, you know. My decor is exceptionally elegant, and often cutting-edge.
I was so proud of myself for taking care of my grown-up tasks and getting all the dirty laundry out of the way before zero hour and back to school. Yesterday morning, I pulled my black brassiere off the doorknob and prepared to put away all my laundry as part of my super-efficient day: immediately following my grocery run. That’s when the wheels fell off.
Apparently, Leroy feels the same about the stretch in a bra strap as he does about the spring in my hair elastics.
There was my bra, the soggy strap soaked with cat spit and chewed in two places, leaving one serious hole and a frayed, gnawed, gap. A bra strap is not (hopefully) a skipping rope. A gal can’t expect to simply tie a knot to repair it and continue using it as usual. Really, a bra strap is more like a cracker: it’s not going to hold much if it’s broken.
The whole situation is strange. I’ve read lots of stories of dogs shredding clothing, many of them involving Mrs. Firepants’ bulldog, Wonderbutt, but a cat willfully destroying lingerie is a new one. Of course, my immediate thought upon discovering the lost cause that was my best brassiere was the same as it always is when life hands me an unexpected curveball: “This will make a great story on my blog.”
Stupid cat. Stupid, drooling, elastic-loving cat. Sigh.
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