This is just a weird household fact. Weird isn’t even the right word. Really, just something noted.
Here in our household, the clothes washer is just called the washer, or the washing machine. But the dishwasher is always fully said with both words, even though it’s been morphed into one. Examples:
“I’m going to put some stuff into the washer and do a load.” That would be the clothes washer.
“Should we turn on the dishwasher?” Self explanatory.
And now, as I’m writing it out to understand what I think about this, I see how much context plays into the whole scheme. Like, we don’t collect dirty clothes into the washer and then announce that we need to do a load. No, that’s all more systematic. We put the dirty clothes into a wheeled basket. When it’s full or one of us has a specific need for something to be washed.
I’d attributed it to our upbringing. I’m 69. My wife is a year younger. Her family never had a dishwasher. Dishes were always washed by hand. My family acquired their first dishwasher when I was eleven. Mom bought it on sale at Sears for Mother’s Day. So I thought that my wife and I grew up with clothes washers but dishwashers came later. Hence the difference.
Could be a bit of both, I suppose. As a final aside, my wife announced on Friday, “I’m going to wash clothes. Do you need to put anything in there? I’m doing darks.”
“No, I have nothing.”
I went off and did something in the other room. When I came back, she accosted me. “We had so many dirty clothes that I had to split it up into two loads.” She gestured back at the machine. “Why are you wearing so many clothes? Where are you going? What are you doing?”
“I’m just following the norm,” I replied. “You know, clean shirt, clean underwear, clean socks. Just one of each a day. Except socks. I wear a pair of them. I usually wear my pants a few times before washing them.”
“You need to be less clean,” she replied.
I laughed. Being told to be ‘less clean’ was definitely a first.
I’d turned on the water, apparently to water the lawn, a problematic decision because snow and ice loaded the land. I realized all that when I went back and discovered that everything was flooded by a couple inches because I’d left the water on. People were looking out their windows like genuine looky lous. I could hear them commenting, telling each other, “Oh, poor Michael. Look at him. What’s wrong with him?”
The house where I turned on the water belong to Mom. So I figured I needed to turn off that water and reimburse her for what was sure to be an expensive water bill. I had a small paper bag with some money in it, but first things first: I was naked. I needed to dress. I had clothes. Most of it was very fancy. So I dressed out there in the flooded yard in front of the watching neighbors, first with undies, then with a pressed pink dress shirt, finally black dress pants.
Before I could get to my shoes, I saw Mom and accosted her. Her children, my sisters, were with her, as young children. I explained about turning the water on and leaving it on, and that I owed her, so I wanted to give her some money. Reaching into the bag, I pulled out a bundle of money, estimating it as $40,000, and gave it to Mom. She protested, “That’s too much,” but I insisted she take it.
She left and put on my shoes. As I finished that, ‘Dad’ approached. This father was a squat, chunky guy, no at all like my real father. Dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and short black tie, he wore a black bowler hat. I knew he was a drunk and was dismissive and scornful of him. He knew this but still approached, asking, “Can you spare ten dollars for me?” I knew he’d use it for booze but I said, “Yes, of course,” and ended up giving him $40. He profusely thanked me. I replied, “I can spare it.”
As Dad thanked me again and again and walked away, I opened my bag to get a sandwich and eat. As I pulled the sandwich out, I realized the bag was larger than first thought, and full of newly bundled money. As I gawked at the bundles of cash, I thought, there must be four million dollars in there.
My oldest item on me would usually be my underwear or socks. My wife shamed me into buying new underwear.
“What would your mother say about this?” My wife was holding up a pair of my boxers.
“I always wear clean underwear,” I answered. “That’s all Mom worried about.”
My wife put fingers through holes. “She wouldn’t be bothered by these holes?”
“It’s enough material. Come on, it’s underwear.”
After pressure like that, I examined my undies with a more critical eye. Sure the elastic wouldn’t hold them up any longer. And parts of them were as sheer as honeymoon negligee. Yes, my wife had a point. The underwear was purchased before we moved here. That was in 2005. I think I had them before we moved to Half Moon Bay, in 1999. So new boxers were purchased. It wasn’t easy. Materials have changed, etc. That’s a whole different tale.
As for my socks, I now wear *shudder* compression socks. Every friggin’ day. They are not old.
We come at last to the oldest thing on me: my gray pullover fleece. It’s a quarter zip. I purchased it for $20 in May of 2001 at the Stanford Shopping Center. I know these details because Mom was visiting and I was starting a new job at another startup, Internet Security Systems.
My wife and I had been married over 25 years then. Mom had never visited us at any of our homes. True, she lived in Pittsburgh, PA, and we’d never lived closer than 300 miles. That was with our first duty assignment at Wright-Patterson AFB, just outside of Dayton, Ohio. For eight of those years of marriage, we were outside of the United States. And on three more years, I was alone overseas.
So, I bought a ticket for Mom, and she was there. She took a photo of our black cat, a long-haired rescue we’d named Sammy. Sammy had been left behind on military base housing. We took him in and discovered that he was a beautiful, sweet, intelligent kitty. Mom happened to take a photo of him while he was on the patio enjoying sunshine. She spent a week with us and then went home. Two days later, we rushed Sammy to the vet, where he died, cause unknown. I was wearing my gray fleece that day.
That big old cat loved that fleece. He liked to climb inside it while I was wearing it. Nestling against my belly and completely out of sight, he’d purr himself to sleep. Then he’d start snoring. My wife always laughed because it was like my belly was snoring. In an aside, a few years later, we moved again. Another rescue cat joined our household. Like Sammy, she liked crawling up under the fleece, curling up against me to nap inside my garment, while it was on me. I think Sammy would have approved.
I always remember Sammy when I don this old fleece. Even if it’s for doing yard work, as it was today. And when I do, I always smile.
I tell my wife, “I’m wearing over eight hundred dollars worth of clothes.”
She looks me over. “Gold-plated underwear?”
“That wouldn’t be comfortable nor practical.” I reconsider the gold-plated undies for a few more seconds. “How would that work?”
“Why are your clothes so pricy?”
“My socks,” I admit.
I’m wearing my compression stockings, as the medical ‘they’ likes to label them. I received a statement about them last night. Review, sign, return. Custom made in Germany to help me cope with lymphedema, the statement reveals that each stocking costs $366.
I explain this to my wife. “Good thing that they’re paid for by Medicare and Tricare for Life. I would have never bought these on my own.”
“No. You’re not comfortable with a pair of shoes that costs over a hundred dollars,” my wife says.
This is true. Fashion doesn’t interest me. I like to be practical. Today’s shoes cost me about sixty. They’re several years old. My jeans are a pre-COVID purchase. Forty dollars. My shirt was bought at an outlet store for $25, I think, over ten years ago. My Columbia fleece is even older. I think I bought it for $40 on sale. Other than the stockings, my undies are the newest things on my person.
Four more stockings are on the way. $366 each. I think about getting a safe to keep them safe.
I begin typing on my computer. Goldplate underwear for men is available at Kohl’s, a search result says. I click on the link. It comes up with gold-plated stainless-steel chains.
Just as well. I don’t think I’m up for gold-plated underwear.
Two clothing dreams were experienced. One ended positively.
In the first clothing dream, it’s my classic anxiety dream. I’m back in the military, and oh, no, I’m not in reg. My hair needs a haircut and I don’t have my cap. We’re expected to be ‘under cover’ when we’re in most situations outside so not having your cap is a large, visible no-no.
And my hair! I was a senior non-commissioned officer. I’m expected to set an example, etc. But in my dream, I said, I can fix this.
I knew I had caps. I just needed to find them. And for the hair — show me a barber! That last was fixed almost immediately as I headed toward the Base Exchange complex. There’ll be someone to cut my hair there. As it’s an anxiety dream, you’d think I’d encountered difficulties with that, but nope! They were open, a chair was available, I had money to pay…it all went great.
Next, the hats. I went to my quarters and pawed through my gear. Yes, there was the proper cover for this ensemble selection. In fact, as I thought I knew, I had two.
Both were filthy, though. Well, hell, no problem. Soap, water, scrubbing, and they were clean and serviceable within minutes.
Dream end. Reviewing the dream, I was pleased. Had anxieties, but problems covered. Heh. Sorry ’bout the pun.
As frequently in my dreams, I was again a young person. One of my best friends during that period was my cousin, and he was in that dream. We were the same height but I was broad-shouldered while he was narrow. Within a few years, he would grow taller, becoming eight inches taller than me. As he swerved toward the right wing, our friendship split apart.
My aunt, his mother, was also in the dream. She was telling that we needed to get ready. With some fast dream talking and thinking, I realized some formal event was happening. I needed a suit and didn’t have one. Somehow I got hold of my cousin’s suit. Sky blue, the suit was a standard American classic cut but made of an unusual fabric that reminded me of a nylon scrub pad. I folded the suit up and put it in a machine that looked like a carrying kennel for animals. Withdrawing it after a few seconds, I discovered that the arms had shrunk, becoming narrow and short. The suit would now fit neither of us. It was also soaking wet, which puzzled me. It hadn’t been my intention to ruin the suit. Now feeling terrible about it, I started walking around wandering, where can I get two suits now?
Don’t you hate it when you gain weight but you hang onto clothes which no longer fit you because you tell yourself you’re going to lose that weight, and then you finally give up on that idea and give the clothes away or throw them out because it just depresses you to see all those clothes that used to fit you, and then, about a year after you give them away or throw them out, you lose weight and could wear them?
Despite a cloudy presence, it’s a sunny Tuesday, November 7, 2023. An election day in many precincts, we’re not voting on anything this year in Ashlandia, where the voters are blue with purple tints and mostly retired professionals. It’s 49 F now with plans to burst into the low fifties, perhaps even hitting up to 53 F. Woo – break out the shorts and tank tops.
Do people still wear tank tops?
My clothes amused me today after I dressed. They were so funny, cracking jokes among themselves. Yeah, I need to say that information differently: The Neurons pointed out how old my wardrobe is, amusing me. Like, the jacket was purchased in San Francisco at Macy’s in December, 2005, during a trip to the city from our new home in Oregon to visit with friends and hear some blues at a club. Pants, underwear, and socks are fairly new at four ~ five years, but my brown Nunn Bush shoes are over twenty-five years old, which strikes me as impossible. And they still fit and are amazingly comfortable. Just a little older than the shoes is the Arrows shirt, purchased at the Naval Air Station Moffett Field Exchange back in 1996.
Weird what memories stay sharp in the mind. Adding it all up, I’m an old clothes man who will never be accused of being a fashion plate. Oh, well.
I keep finding pieces of kibble at odd places in the house, such as the bedroom hallway, in the living room by the television, and in the office. I normally pick them up and toss them away. Yesterday, though, I saw Papi, the ginger blade, come up, sniff the kibble, look around, and then head for the feeding station. That put it all into context: these kibble pieces are not lost or misplaced, but precisely located elements of the KPS, the shorthand for the Kibble Positioning System. Consulting the KPS provides the floof about food locations. The floofs have such amazing technology, yeah?
The Neurons knocked me back with the music they slotted into the morning mental music stream (Trademark fishy). I was in the kitchen, minding my own business, getting on with needs. Having fed the house floofs, I’m preparing my own brekkie when I hear, “Words can’t bring me down.” Within a heartbeat or two, I’m hearing more of Christina Aguilera singing “Beautiful” from 2002.
Why this song today? I asked Der Neurons.
No, they didn’t respond, but I knew that it was about words. First, words in the news about polls, politics, and elections; then words about wars, killings, and death; and finally, words in my novel-in-process and where it stands and what I’m gonna do with it next.
It’s such a strong and lovely song, though, well sung and produced, I’m happy with it in the MMMS.
Every day is so wonderful Then suddenly it’s hard to breathe Now and then I get insecure From all the pain, I’m so ashamed
I am beautiful no matter what they say Words can’t bring me down I am beautiful in every single way Yes, words can’t bring me down… Oh no So don’t you bring me down today
To all your friends you’re delirious So consumed in all your doom Trying hard to fill the emptiness The pieces gone, left the puzzle undone Is that the way it is?
You are beautiful no matter what they say Words can’t bring you down…oh no You are beautiful in every single way Yes, words can’t bring you down, oh, no So don’t you bring me down today
No matter what we do (No matter what we do) No matter what we say (No matter what we say) We’re the song inside the tune Full of beautiful mistakes
And everywhere we go (And everywhere we go) The sun will always shine (The sun will always, always shine) And tomorrow we might wake on the other side
We are beautiful no matter what they say Yes, words won’t bring us down, no, no We are beautiful in every single way Yes, words can’t bring us down, oh, no So don’t you bring me down today
Oh, yeah, don’t you bring me down today, yeah, ooh Don’t you bring me down ooh… today
It’s a song worth listening to and thinking about. I hope you’ll listen and agree.
On to the day. Stay pos, be strong, lean forward, and remember that you’re beautiful. Coffee is at hand once again to bolster my will. Here’s the video. Cheers
It was another military dream but with a marked difference. First, a friend, Jeff, who was also in the military was in the dream.
I was at some unidentified Air Force base. I was a chief master sergeant, E9, and was due to attend a conference of CMS that was due to start. (This is two ranks above my RL retired rank.) I worried about my hair, my uniform, and my shoes as attendees began arriving. But I slipped away and pressed my uniform, taking care of that, putting razor sharp creases in it. Then I stayed low until the barber opened. When I walked into the barber shop, there were two barbers and no customers, so either one could immediately cut my hair. Both knew me by name.
After getting my hair cut, I left the shop and looked down at my shoes. They were scuffed and old. I said to myself, those aren’t my shoes, and they immediately changed into highly polished new shoes.
I felt a lot better about myself. I ran into Jeff, also a CMS. He and I chatted. I ended up telling him about a cousin who died of cancer (a cancer did die of cancer in RL). We were walking around as we talked. Female military spouses were all over the place, and they kept flirting with me. The attention flattered me.
Jeff and I stayed together through the morning, sitting down and eating. Then the conference was due to start. Another CMS came up and asked if I was going, because it was getting under way. I told him that I’d left the military twice and came back twice, but now I’m done. I wasn’t going to attend. I was taking off my uniform and leaving.
I went off to find a bathroom. When I found one, I undressed and then peed and discovered that my pecker was half purple. One of the wives walked in on me. While taking a long look at my body, she apologized for entering. I replied, “I don’t mind. I’m just wondering why my penis is half purple.”
Everything whizzed by in this dream. With few exceptions, chaos ruled.
I began by entering some sort of dark, busy pavilion. Plants hung down from the rafters. The inside was filled with tables. It could have been something like a flea market but I never knew for certain. As I walked around, I visited with a dog, petting and talking to him. Coming to another entrance, I then encountered a large, black dog. I reached out to visit with him. I snapped his teeth at me and then began growling. I shrugged it off and walked. The dog followed me, growling me. I turned and told him to stop and then threatened to hit him with a sock I had in my hand. The dog backed off.
I continued. Some people (hazy) asked me questions. I seemed to know them. I answered and then told them that I need to change my clothes. I went to do this and realized my clotherees were in suitcases. After finding one, I realized my other suitcases were elsewhere. I knew exactly where, though, and rushed to them. But then it was like, okay, what will I wear, oh, the underwear is in the other suitcase, there’s the light blue sweat I wanted, all while answering others’ questions as they walked past me or stood behind me.
My nocturnal dream stream continued at a frantic pace. Two stood out for various causes.
The first found me vacationing with friends. We were middle-aged and having a ball, even though a tsunami was apparently threatening us. We were down on the beach but we just went up into the mountains and set up a separate camp. Music was being played, food and drink was consumed, and we laughed, having a good time. I returned to our beach camp with several others. Camp sites were set up shoulder to ass. Young women in a nearby site were complaining about the lack of room and nothing to do. Seeing us having fun and enjoying ourselves, they came over and asked, “What’s our secret?”
We said that there wasn’t one, it was just an attitude, that we’d moved on to another space and had just come down to get some things. Many of our friends came into the adjacent camp while this was going on. One of them was hamming up and started entertaining people with a delightful Elvis Presley impression, where he had EP doing a strip tease while singing. My friend was uninhibited about what he showed and did. I thought, man, I wish I could be like him.
A later dream found me in a friend’s house. Calling it a house might be an understatement, but I was only ever in one room. What a room, though, spacious and light, with high ceilings, and walls that were windows that she raised, making them disappear. The whole thing was impressive but I found myself worrying about damaging things, which put the brakes on my entertainment.
Some sort of song and dance thing was going on nearby. A group of us, eight women and two men, decided to check it out. We walked down there and were watching from a distance. The show was still being organized and set up. One act called for audience participation. I was interested but then learned, you had to strip off all your clothes and join them nude.
That put a damper on it for me. The other male friend said that he was going to do it. I watched him as he went up while my friends talked about it. One of them encouraged me to go, but I said, “No thanks.” She pointed out that the other guy in our group had gone. I then saw him sneaking away, fully clothed, and said, “No, he chickened out.”
I then thought about it and said, “Screw it. Here I go.”
I stripped off my clothes, growing aware, of course, of others giving me space and watching. Naked, I walked up to the center ground — there wasn’t a stage — and presented myself. I was the only guy. The organizer was a male. He looked up and said, “Yes.” I answered, “I took off my clothes. I’m here to participate.”
He seemed a little taken back. as I looked around, I saw that others weren’t naked. The organizer said, “Here, put this on.” It was a long tee, which was what others wore. I put it on. It came down to my ass, leaving my pecker to swing in the wind.
The entertainment began. I didn’t grasp what we were doing and what my specific role was, but I winged it. I had fun, and a sense of freedom and exhilaration overtook me. I saw people watching me, especially women, and they seemed to be commenting on this middle-aged semi-naked men, but I thought, what the hell do I care? That’s their problem.
Michael Seidel, writer 