In the Fold

I didn’t even know the world had burned down over the weekend until Monday morning.

I didn’t know because I didn’t look at Twitter most of the weekend; and I didn’t look at Twitter because I was busy fondling my clothing.

You read that right.

For clarification, the world burns down every weekend according to Twitter, I just chose not to watch this time.

As far as the clothes fondling, it’s not near as nefarious as it sounds and a good bit less interesting than coming up with the perfect 140 characters to address the recurring issue of burning down of the world.

But, to be more useful in this life, I spent the weekend cleaning out my closet.

No, my closet is not that big. It’s that messy, or I should say, it was. And if I know me – and I do – it will be again.

This past weekend is what I call my semi-annual pilgrimage to my personal Wizard of Oz, a glimpse of the Mecca of an organized life.

Midway through the pilgrimmage, I had the bright idea that I could probably fold my t-shirts and stretch pants (home team uniform) in a neater manner than my patented cram-them-in-there-and sort-it-out-later method.


My previous method, defined

I turned to YouTube for advice on this uncomfortable thought.

YouTube is where people like me go to find out about such foreign  concepts and it took me to Japan where I met a woman named Marie Kondo who according to YouTube, revolutionized clothes folding.

Thereafter, I spent two and a half hours, “smoothing the fabric, communicating my affection and gratitude to my clothes (this is very important according to the video),  fondling my shirts and generally feeling creepy.

My t-shirts were felt, thanked and folded with a love that can apparently only be found in Japan. I like to think I will continue this method, but history tells me this is the only love my folded shirts will feel all season. I hope they enjoyed it, a lot.

In fact, I have a date with my favorite vintage Nike t-shirt (c. 1980)  this weekend because we talked and decided to try again.

I saved the shirt folding for last, because having known myself my entire life, I knew I would need a good, stiff drink after all that human-fabric emotional entanglement. Also, Adele was heavy on the playlist that got me through it, so I toasted her as I leaned back against the shelf of properly-thanked and folded shirts.

Then, I tweeted a picture of how I cleaned up my world.

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You may leave my underwear out of this

Grant Triplow.

Today I’m going to talk about underwear, so if it makes you uncomfortable this is your chance to stop reading.

I’m looking at you, husband.

Everybody has a sacred cow and other things people shouldn’t jack with. Mine, I found out recently  during a seemingly innocuous conversation, seems to be my panties (also known as underwear, unmentionables or skivvies.)

My son, Tom, who lives in Boston, told me that the pay-per-load washer and dryer in the basement of the house he rents was out of order during the entire month of December.

This made it necessary for Tom to find alternative means of washing his wardrobe, which isn’t the easiest thing to do when you live in Boston and use public transportation.

Being a mother, I’m pretty sure it crossed my mind to have him ship his dirty clothes to me, which I would ship back all clean and folded. Then I’m pretty sure I remembered that I hate doing laundry, so the offer was never made.

Not to worry, he told me he was walking his dirty clothes to a laundry that charges $1 a pound to do what I’m not willing to do for free.

Suddenly, I’m wondering if we have one of these amazing services in this area, which I’m sure we don’t because I have begun to believe that only Boston has the stuff I think I should not have to  live without like huge unicorn statues on public buildings and pizza that taste like it was ordained by God.


That is a large unicorn you see on the top right of that fine building.

The next part of our conversation went like this:

Tom: It’s a pain in the butt, but it works.

Me: I’m glad you’ve got a laundry in walking distance and all, but tell me this . . . even the underwear?

Tom: Especially the underwear.

Me: WHAT? Just go ahead and make me grab my diaries and throw ‘em on the table at Thanksgiving . . . That’s how exposed I would feel.

(Sidenote: I’m afraid me and a bottle of Woolite would have date night once a week before I would farm out my unmentionables to a laundry service.)

Tom: It’s just underwear, Mom.

Me: Says you, sir.

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