Laundry Basket Quotes

What's that?" "The laundry basket?" "No, next to it." "I don't see anything next to it." "It's my last shred of dignity. It's very small.

Resolution number one: Obviously will lose twenty pounds. Number two: Always put last night's panties in the laundry basket. Equally important, will find sensible boyfriend to go out with and not continue to form romantic attachments to any of the following: alcoholics, workaholics, commitment phobic's, peeping toms, megalomaniacs, emotional fuckwits or perverts. And especially will not fantasize about a particular person who embodies all these things

[Kagura is doing laundry and tries to wring out Kyou's shirt causing it to rip in two ] Kyo Sohma: Tell me what I think just happened didn't just happen Kagura: My love ! Kyo Sohma: My shirt!

Shigure: Perhaps I can offer some advice? ...You know, Tohru-kun, when you get anxiety about the future it's better not to think about it. And let's not wipe our faces with dishtowels... For example let's say, Tohru-kun, that you are surrounded with a mountain of laundry piled so high around your feet that you can't move. Are you with me? Now, let's assume you don't have a washing machine, so you have to wash everything individually by hand. You would be at a loss for what to do, right? You'd worry about if you could ever wash everything, if you could get it all clean, if you'd ever have time for anything but laundry ever again! The more you'd think about it, the more anxious you'd get. But the time keeps passing, and the laundry doesn't wash itself. So what do you do, Tohru-kun? It might be a good idea to start washing the laundry right at your feet. Of course it's important to think about what lies ahead, too, but if you only look at what's down the road you'll get tangled in the laundry at your feet and you'll fall, won't you? You see, it's also important to think about what you can do now, what you can do today. And if you keep washing things one at a time, you'll be done before you know it. Because fortune is looking out for you. Sometimes the anxiety will start to well up, but when it does, take a little break. Read a book, watch TV, or eat soumen with everyone. Oh my, I'm shocked! Wow! What a wonderful analogy! I really must treat myself to some soumen as a reward... Oh! I'd like some tea, too! Kyo: Why you... You just wanted to eat soumen, didn't you?!

Every morning when I wake up and look in the mirror, I see a black face and I love it. Sure, I've been to Paris and grew up surfing, and yes, I speak like I'm in a commercial. But I'm just like the women you see walking on the side of the road with their laundry baskets and their Bibles. I'm just like the old men pedaling their rusty bicycles. I'm no different from the men who drive your tractors or the woman who probably raised you. I'm just like them, no better and no worse. I'm black, Remy, which means everything and nothing

What’s that?” “That laundry basket?” “No, next to it.” “I don’t see anything next to it.” “It’s my last shred of dignity. It’s very small.

In a lifetime of hearing people celebrate weekends, she finally saw what all the fuss was about. By no means did her workload cease on Saturday, but it did shift gears. If her kids wanted to pull everything out of the laundry basket to make a bird's nest and sit in it, fine. Dellarobia could even sit in there with them and incubate, if she so desired. Household chores no longer called her name exclusively. She had an income. She'd never before understood how much her life in this little house had felt to her like confinement in a sinking vehicle after driving off a bridge. ..... To open a hatch and swim away felt miraculous. Working outside the home took her about fifty yards from her kitchen, which was far enough. She couldn't see the dishes in the sink.

Some people would say it's a bad idea to bring a fire-spider into a public library. Those people would probably be right, but it was better than leaving him alone in the house for nine hours straight. The one time I tried, Smudge had expressed his displeasure by burning through the screen that covered his tank, burrowing into my laundry basket, and setting two weeks' worth of clothes ablaze.

Penny: PROBLEM. Spider in the clean laundry basket and now it’s gone. I have to burn down the house. Gray: No. Penny: You’re not grasping the severity of this situation. The spider is huge and it’s going to eat the cat. Gray: Then the spider will rightfully take our cat’s place and become our beloved spider cat. Penny: This is on you. And remember that thing I said you could do to me tonight? It’s off the table.

What’s that?” “That laundry basket?” “No, next to it.” “I don’t see anything next to it.” “It’s my last shred of dignity. It’s very small.

I pulled a dirty black sweatshirt from the laundry basket on my son’s floor and tried to drink in his scent, to savor the essence of my sweet boy. I inhaled it long and hard, wanting to permanently implant all of him in my brain, to make him last forever.

It might be a good idea...to start washing the laundry right at your feet. Of course it's important to think about what lies ahead, too...but if you only look at what's down the road...you'll get tangled in the laundry at your feet and you'll fall, won't you? You see...it's also important to think about what you can do now, what you can do today. And if you keep washing things one day at a time...you'll be done before you know it. Because fortune is looking out for you.

One of the things I love about bound books is their sheer physicality. Electronic books live out of sight and out of mind. But printed books have body, presence. Sure, sometimes they’ll elude you by hiding in improbable places: in a box full of old picture frames, say, or in the laundry basket, wrapped in a sweatshirt. But at other times they’ll confront you, and you’ll literally stumble over some tomes you hadn’t thought about in weeks or years. I often seek electronic books, but they never come after me. The may make me feel, but I can’t’ feel them. They are all soul with no flesh, no texture and no weight. They can get in your head but can’t whack you upside it.

Thank you for what? I’d never know. Lives stop with frayed ends. Dirty washing still in the laundry basket.

Umm, Ren? We have something important we need to discuss. Meet me on the veranda at sundown, okay?” He froze with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. “A secret rendezvous? On the veranda? At sundown?” He arched an eyebrow at me. “Why, Kelsey, are you trying to seduce me?” “Hardly,” I dryly muttered. He laughed. “Well, I’m all yours. But be gentle with me tonight, fair maiden. I’m new at this whole being human business.” Exasperated, I threw out, “I am not your fair maiden.” He ignored my comment and went back to devouring his lunch. He also took the other half of my discarded peanut butter sandwich and ate that too, commenting, “Hey! This stuff’s pretty good.” Finished, I walked over to the kitchen island and began clearing away Ren’s mess. When he was done eating, he stood to help me. We worked well together. It was almost like we knew what the other person was going to do before he or she did it. The kitchen was spotless in no time. Ren took off his apron and threw it into the laundry basket. Then, he came up behind me while I was putting away some glasses and wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me up against him. He smelled my hair, kissed my neck, and murmured softly in my ear, “Mmm, definitely peaches and cream, but with a hint of spice. I’ll go be a tiger for a while and take a nap, and then I can save all my hours for you this evening.” I grimaced He was probably expecting a make-out session, and I was planning to break up with him. He wanted to spend time with a girlfriend, and my intention was to explain to him how we weren’t meant to be together. Not that we were ever officially together. Still, it felt like a break-up. Why does this have to be so hard? Ren rocked me and whispered, “’How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night, Like soft music to attending ears.’” I turned around in his arms, shocked. “How did you remember that? That’s Romeo and Juliet!” He shrugged. “I paid attention when you were reading it to me. I liked it.” He gently kissed my cheek. “See you tonight, iadala,” and left me standing there. The rest of the afternoon, I couldn’t focus on anything. Nothing held my attention for more than a few minutes. I rehearsed some sentences in front of the mirror, but they all sounded pretty lame to me: “It’s not you, it’s me,” “There are plenty of other fish in the sea,” “I need to find myself,” “Our differences are too big,” “I’m not the one,” “There’s someone else.” Heck, I even tried “I’m allergic to cats.

What’s wrong with Bill McCormick? Can’t he run a washer? I thought he was one of our aerospace brains.” “He’s taking care of Marge,” Kit said, folding the T-shirt. “These things came out nice and white, didn’t they?” She put the folded T-shirt into the laundry basket, smiling. Like an actress in a commercial. That’s what she was, Joanna felt suddenly. That’s what they all were, all the Stepford wives: actresses in commercials, pleased with detergents and floor wax, with cleansers, shampoos, and deodorants. Pretty actresses, big in the bosom but small in the talent, playing suburban housewives unconvincingly, too nicey-nice to be real.

What if you missed hearing the best part of your child’s day because you were on the phone? What if you missed a chance to inhale the sweet scent of your energetic child because you insisted on folding that basket of laundry before bedtime? What if you missed a chance to console your worried spouse because of your mile-long to-do list?

I can’t believe he’s going along with this.” She flops on her bed, then wrinkles her forehead and stares at the mattress. “Did you make my bed?” “Yes,” I say sheepishly, but she doesn’t seem pissed. I’d already warned her that my OCD might rear its incredibly tidy head every now and then, and so far she hasn’t batted an eye when it happens. The only items on her don’t-touch-or-I’ll-fuck-you-up list are her shoes and her iTunes music library. “Wait, but you didn’t fold my laundry?” She mock gasps. “What the hell, Grace? I thought we were friends.” I stick out my tongue. “I’m not your maid. Fold your own damn laundry.” Daisy’s eyes gleam. “So you’re telling me you can look at that basket overflowing with fresh-from-the-dryer clothes—” she gestures to the basket in question “—and you aren’t the teensiest bit tempted to fold them? All those shirts…forming wrinkles as we speak. Lonely socks…longing for their pairs—” “Let’s fold your laundry,” I blurt out. A gale of laughter overtakes her small body. “That’s what I thought.

Ami leaned into his side and inhaled the fresh scent of man. “Uh, no. Sometimes my biological clock threatens to explode like a ticking bomb, that’s all. Rachel is so lucky. Nat is a doll. Doug adores them. Don’t mind me, I’m just wishing my laundry pile was filled with boxer shorts and Cinderella T-shirts. I’ll get over it.” “Why do you have to get over it,” Marcus asked gently. “Sounds like a nice dream to me.” ...a few pages later Things were looking up. If he could just convince her his boxer shorts belonged in her laundry basket, he’d be right on board with her six-month plan

Good morning, dear lady," he said. "By Jove! what a picture of health and freshness you are!" Miss Mapp cast one glance at her basket to see that the paper quite concealed that article of clothing which the perfidious laundry had found. (Probably the laundry knew where it was all the time, and--in a figurative sense, of course--was "trying it on".)

So my life has come to this: all I ever make is laundry. Awake or asleep, I'm always shuffling round some shopping mall, raking through knitwear carousels that whirl into infinity, searching, with the fever or teething gums, for the ultimate cardigan. Is it any wonder the wardrobe's bursting, the linen basket overflowing like an archive of disproved hypotheses? The grey bras, the shrinking T-shirts, that embarrassed puddle of lycra, my favourite dress -- now ruined dress -- my lost remembered, perfect dress: all laundry, in the end. More laundry.

There is a sign above the door in the shape of a door key, on it the words KEYS CUT. There’ll be a high smell of creosote, oil, paraffin, lawn treatment stuff. There’ll be brushheads with handles, brushheads without handles, handles by themselves, for sale. What else? Rakes, spades, forks, a garden roller, a wall of stepladders, a tin bath full of bags of compost. Calor gas bottles, saucepans, frying pans, mopheads, charcoal, folding stools made of wood, a plastic bucket of plungers, stacked packs of sandpaper, sacks of sand in a wheelbarrow, metal doormats, axes, hammers, a camping stove or two, hessian carpet mats, stuff for curtains, stuff for curtain rails, stuff for screwing curtain rails to walls and pelmets, pliers, screwdrivers, bulbs, lamps, pails, pegs, laundry baskets. Saws, of all sizes. EVERYTHING FOR THE HOME.

Our community deserves leaders who should know what debates and arguments are better conducted out of the public eye, instead of dumping their baskets of dirty laundry all over the internet. Our community deserves leaders who do not put political expedience or convenience before their commitments to those they supposedly represent. Our community deserves leaders who do not make about-turns on issues such as freedom of speech and accountability to the community they serve when it becomes too embarrassing for them, or too uncomfortable. Our community deserves leaders who can and want to work together, not fling their handbags at each other, hissing like drama queens.

One of the many things i love about bound books is their sheer physicality. Electronic books live out of sight and out of mind. But printed books have body, presence. Sure, sometimes they’ll elude you by hiding in improbable places: in a box full of old pictures frames,say, or in the laundry basket, wrapped in a sweatshirt. But at other times they’ll confront you, and you’ll literally stumble over some tomes you hadn’t thought about in weeks or years. I often seek electronic books, but they never come after me. They may make me feel, but i can’t feel them. They are all soul with no flesh, no texture, and no weight. They can get in your head but can’t whack you upside it.

One of the many things I love about bound books is their sheer physicality. Electronic books live out of sight and out of mind. But printed books have body, presence. Sure, sometimes they’ll elude you by hiding in improbable places: in a box full of old picture frames, say, or in the laundry basket, wrapped in a sweatshirt. But at other times they’ll confront you, and you’ll literally stumble over some tomes you hadn’t thought about in weeks or years. I often seek electronic books, but they never come after me. They may make me feel, but I can’t feel them. They are all soul with no flesh, no texture, and no weight. They can get in your head but can’t whack you upside it.

With a shrug, he grabbed the laundry soap out of the basket by his feet, figuring that she’d never miss it, and poured the soap in the washing machine.               “Oops,” he sighed, when he realized that he’d used the last of the soap. Not really caring, he tossed the now empty container back on the basket as he made a mental note to pick up another bottle for his little neighbor when he went to the grocery store later.

An Ode to Baskets Big baskets, little baskets, clear baskets, wicker baskets, baskets from the Dollar Tree, baskets that I got for free. Baskets of shoes, baskets of books, baskets in all my crannies and nooks. And here’s the key, here’s the trick: the baskets go where the stuff already went. Laundry that ends up on the dining room floor, put a basket there and there’s mess no more. The stress of a cluttered counter easily ends when you put it all in a box or a bin. If you’re feeling fancy you could purchase a basket’s cousin such as a tray or a lazy Susan. My organizational system is, on its face, just putting a basket in the right place.

I don’t know about your parental units, but mine really have it together when it comes to laundry. They have it together in many other ways, such as having a fully stocked fridge at all times—and not just with the basics, like bread, milk, and eggs. I’m talking about luxury spices that you might only see in a wicker basket on Chopped, vegan food items that Oprah has endorsed, and enough produce to make a fresh summer salad whenever the mood strikes. Just like when Honey Boo Boo said everyone is a little bit gay, it seems like every parent is a little bit Gwyneth Paltrow: the Goop Years after the kids leave the house. And Ma and Pa Robinson are no exception.

Silas refuses to help us cage Screwtape, who hisses loudly, having long suspected something is up. I go to pick him up, trying to act like everything is normal, but Screwtape darts away. It’d probably be easier to crate a Fenris than it is to crate Screwtape. The dance repeats until Scarlett and I are red in the face and Silas is laughing at us. We finally run the cat down, and Scarlett manages to toss the laundry basket over him when he’s too busy anticipating his next dash. “We could still leave him,” Silas jokes—I think he’s joking, anyway—as we load the howling backseat of his car. Scarlett looks as though she might feel the same way as she nurses a batch of claw marks on top of the thicker Fenris scars. She climbs into the backseat of the car as Silas and I slide into the front. Silas hot-wires the ignition of the hatchback and pounds on the radio for a few minutes before it buzzes to life. “We can’t change the station, by the way,” he says. “Because you really like pop music?” I ask, wrinkling my nose as a bubbly song blares at us. “Not hardly,” Silas says. “I hate it. But last time I changed it, the car stopped. Oh, and lean away from your door—sometimes it opens randomly. “Um . . . great,” I say, leaning as far away from the door as possible. But this feels even more dangerous, because I’m leaning incredibly close to Silas, so close that I’m hyperaware of the fact that my sister is right behind me. My stomach twists as it fights my body’s urge to fall against him. I shudder and try to shake the desire off.

As the year went on, I felt I was handling my grief and depression better, but the pressures kept piling up. You don’t really ever feel “comfortable” being a widow. You endure, maybe get through it, but you don’t ever truly own it. And still, a part of me didn’t want to get beyond it. My pain was proof of my love. One night I went over to a friend’s house and just started bawling. I had been going through photos of Chris when he was in his twenties and thirties. I’m going to be an old woman somewhere, and he’s going to be young. So many other emotions ran through me every day. People suggested that I might find someone else. “No,” I’d tell them. “No one will ever take his place.” School forms would ask about the kids’ family situation. Were their parents married, divorced? I’m not a single mother. I’m raising the kids with my husband! Even if he’s not here. I always think about what he would want to do. One night, alone in my bedroom, I picked up the laundry basket off the treadmill. I suddenly felt as if Chris was there with me, somehow hovering two feet off the ground. He grinned. “I’m working on something for you,” he said. And I knew he meant he was trying to hook me up with a man. I jerked back. Had I really heard that? Was he really there? The room was empty, but I had the strongest feeling that he was there. I could feel his grin. I became furious. “How dare you!” I screamed in my head. “I don’t want anyone else. I want you! What’s wrong with you?” I walked out of the room. I blocked him out for a while, partly because of that incident, partly because of how overwhelming the emotions were. Finally I realized I didn’t want to do that. And one night toward the end of the year, I said aloud, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to block you out.” The room was empty, but I sensed he might be with me. “I am so sorry!” I repeated. Then I started bawling. I felt as if he came over and put his arm around my waist. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. His voice, in a whisper, but one I felt rather than heard: I didn’t want to hurt you. I cried and cried. I felt a million things--sorry, crazy, insane. I finally glanced up and looked in the mirror. I was alone. “I’m not losing it,” I told myself. “What little I have left, I’m not losing it.” I slumped off to bed, exhausted.

He opened the door after letting me pound on it for almost five minutes. His truck was in the carport. I knew he was here. He pulled the door open and walked back inside without looking at me or saying a word. I followed him in, and he dropped onto a sofa I’d never seen before. His face was scruffy. I’d never seen him anything but clean-shaven. Not even in pictures. He had bags under his eyes. He’d aged ten years in three days. The apartment was a mess. The boxes were gone. It looked like he had finally unpacked. But laundry was piled up in a basket so full it spilled out onto the floor. Empty food containers littered the kitchen countertops. The coffee table was full of empty beer bottles. His bed was unmade. The place smelled stagnant and dank. A vicious urge to take care of him took hold. The velociraptor tapped its talon on the floor. Josh wasn’t okay. Nobody was okay. And that was what made me not okay. “Hey,” I said, standing in front of him. He didn’t look at me. “Oh, so you’re talking to me now,” he said bitterly, taking a long pull on a beer. “Great. What do you want?” The coldness of his tone took me aback, but I kept my face still. “You haven’t been to the hospital.” His bloodshot eyes dragged up to mine. “Why would I? He’s not there. He’s fucking gone.” I stared at him. He shook his head and looked away from me. “So what do you want? You wanted to see if I’m okay? I’m not fucking okay. My best friend is brain-dead. The woman I love won’t even fucking speak to me.” He picked up a beer cap from the coffee table and threw it hard across the room. My OCD winced. “I’m doing this for you,” I whispered. “Well, don’t,” he snapped. “None of this is for me. Not any of it. I need you, and you abandoned me. Just go. Get out.” I wanted to climb into his lap. Tell him how much I missed him and that I wouldn’t leave him again. I wanted to make love to him and never be away from him ever again in my life—and clean his fucking apartment. But instead, I just stood there. “No. I’m not leaving. We need to talk about what’s happening at the hospital.” He glared up at me. “There’s only one thing I want to talk about. I want to talk about how you and I can be in love with each other and you won’t be with me. Or how you can stand not seeing me or speaking to me for weeks. That’s what I want to talk about, Kristen.” My chin quivered. I turned and went to the kitchen and grabbed a trash bag from under the sink. I started tossing take-out containers and beer bottles. I spoke over my shoulder. “Get up. Go take a shower. Shave. Or don’t if that’s the look you’re going for. But I need you to get your shit together.” My hands were shaking. I wasn’t feeling well. I’d been light-headed and slightly overheated since I went to Josh’s fire station looking for him. But I focused on my task, shoving trash into my bag. “If Brandon is going to be able to donate his organs, he needs to come off life support within the next few days. His parents won’t do it, and Sloan doesn’t get a say. You need to go talk to them.” Hands came up under my elbows, and his touch radiated through me. “Kristen, stop.” I spun on him. “Fuck you, Josh! You need help, and I need to help you!” And then as fast as the anger surged, the sorrow took over. The chains on my mood swing snapped, and feelings broke through my walls like water breaching a crevice in a dam. I began to cry. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. The strength that drove me through my days just wasn’t available to me when it came to Josh. I dropped the trash bag at his feet and put my hands over my face and sobbed. He wrapped his arms around me, and I completely lost it.

Do Mormons drink hot cider?” I asked Mimi, dabbing my underarms with a T-shirt plucked from my laundry basket. I was sweating despite being cold. “They don’t drink hot drinks, right, but does hot cider count? I could put the stuff from the farmer’s market in the crockpot. Would that be lame?

Activities to Develop the Proprioceptive System Lifting and Carrying Heavy Loads—Have the child pick up and carry soft-drink bottles to the picnic; laundry baskets upstairs; or grocery bags, filled with nonbreakables, into the house. He can also lug a box of books, a bucket of blocks, or a pail of water from one spot to another. Pushing and Pulling—Have the child push or drag grocery bags from door to kitchen. Let him push the stroller, vacuum, rake, shove heavy boxes, tow a friend on a sled, or pull a loaded wagon. Hard muscular work jazzes up the muscles. Hanging by the Arms—Mount a chinning bar in a doorway, or take your child to the park to hang from the monkey bars. When she suspends her weight from her hands, her stretching muscles send sensory messages to her brain. When she shifts from hand to hand as she travels underneath the monkey bars, she is developing upper-body strength. Hermit Crab—Place a large bag of rice or beans on the child’s back and let her move around with a heavy “shell” on her back. Joint Squeeze—Put one hand on the child’s forearm and the other on his upper arm; slowly press toward and away from his elbow. Repeat at his knee and shoulder. Press down on his head. Straighten and bend his fingers, wrists, elbows, knees, ankles, and toes. These extension and flexion techniques provide traction and compression to his joints and are effective when he’s stuck in tight spaces, such as church pews, movie theaters, cars, trains, and especially airplanes where the air pressure changes. Body Squeeze—Sit on the floor behind your child, straddling him with your legs. Put your arms around his knees, draw them toward his chest, and squeeze hard. Holding tight, rock him forward and back.

Love was what happened after the first flush of lust had worn off and you found out they hated doing the dishes and never put their socks in the laundry basket, and yet you still wanted to be with them. Love was looking after them when they thought they were dying from a measly cold, and putting up with their snoring, and letting them watch the rugby although there was a show you were missing on the other side. Wasn’t it?

Do place a lidless laundry basket–style hamper in a prominent location in your child’s bedroom—no tucking it into a closet. I always recommend a tall laundry basket for this purpose; it makes for an easy target when tossing in dirty clothes.

She hoisted the basket of laundry, heading into the house and the ever more appealing prospect of her pillow. The moon threw shadows across the yard, a painter expert exclusively in the palette of gray and blue.

But I want to hear more about Sean.” “Um…like what?” She knew he didn’t like broccoli or peas. “Oh, I don’t know. How does he like working for you? Since you’re the owner, will he be a stay-at-home dad once you have children?” Emma was pretty sure Sean’s ideal wife would be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen with a baby on her hip and a laundry basket on the floor, but she didn’t say so. “His working for me isn’t really long-term. He’s just not sure what he wants to do yet. And we’ll figure out the baby thing when the time comes.” In other words, she had no clue, but she hoped Gram wouldn’t figure that out.

laundry rules 1. Laundry baskets go in bedrooms Laundry baskets go everywhere. They go in every room even and especially in the kitchen and living room. 2. Wash clothes when the bins are full Wash only on Mondays and wash everything on Monday. Eventually this day will become synonymous with laundry and it will be easier to remember. 3. Sort darks and whites Load everything together. Do not sort. Wash on cold. 4. Transfer from washer to dryer quickly Set a timer once the washer starts. Set timer again once dryer starts. 5. Fold clothes Create multiple bins/baskets for clothes and toss them in unfolded. Hang a few shirts. 6. Put away in everyone’s different closets in their room All clothes are stored in one room, which is the en suite closet off the laundry area. It makes no sense to take clothes to three different closets when I am the person dressing all three of those people. Sit on butt and put away every family member’s laundry in under eight minutes without moving. making laundry serve you Laundry does not have to be done the way you have always been taught to do it.

I came to this country in a breadbasket, which is probably why I like bread. Thank goodness I did not come in a laundry basket!

She had seen her mother looking ethereal, in her tutu and swan feathers and dinky little crown, in the poster from a Denver Opera Ballet production—looking like something you could break in two. But looking over her shoulder one day and seeing Nita eyeing dubiously that old framed poster, her mother had said, “Honey, take my advice. Don’t mess around with swans. One of those pretty white wings could break your leg in three places.” And off she had gone with the laundry basket, sailing past, graceful and strong, with the danger showing only around the edges of the chuckle.

The same tired people who dragged bags and baskets full of their dirty laundry out in public when they had a rare spare moment. It was a certain breed of people that used Laundromats and Ren had it down to such a fine science she could have probably recognized them on the street.

You can smash a snow globe with a ball-peen hammer and be disappointed that the glass is actually plastic and the snow actually ground-up Styrofoam. • You can laminate anything by winding it in plastic wrap before a five-minute tumble on Cotton in the dryer. • You can microwave a lightbulb for nearly twenty beautiful seconds as it turns in there like a pink comet before it finally goes supernova. • You can safely remove your Helmet and whack your head repeatedly on the drywall, weaving an orange velvet into your vision, before you manage to leave a dent. • You can cover a wall dent by hanging a masterpiece over it and claiming that you need the work at eye level to properly appreciate it. • You can simulate immortality by sticking a rubberhandled flathead screwdriver directly into the outlet and only trip a breaker. • You can ride the laundry basket down the carpeted stairs like a mine cart four times until it catches and ejects you to the bottom, where you strike your elbow and it swells red as a hot-water bottle. • You can safely light the fluff on your sweatpants with a barbecue lighter and send flame rolling over your legs like poured blue water, leaving a crispy black stubble. • You can halt a fan if you thrust your hand into the blades bravely—only when you hesitate will your knuckles be rapped. • You can stick the chilly steel tube of the vacuum to your belly and generate a hideous yet painless bruise, and these pulsating circles when placed carefully can form an Olympic symbol that lasts well into a second week. Of course his mother’s catching wind of any of

The nearest one came to a tumble dryer was if the laundry basket was dropped on the way to the washing-line and then the whole lot went tumbling down the drive.

One of the many things I love about bound books is their sheer physicality. Electronic books live out of sight and out of mind. But printed books have body, presence. Sure, sometimes they'll elude you by hiding in improbable places: in a box full of old picture frames, say, or in the laundry basket, wrapped in a sweatshirt. But at other times they'll confront you, and you'll literally stumble over some tomes you hadn't thought about in weeks or years. I often seek electronic books, but they never come after me. They may make me feel, but I can't feel them. They are all soul with no flesh, no texture, and no weight. They can get in your head but can't whack you upside it.

Well, that might be fine for the lot of you,” Kerry broke in, “but given you’re siding with Mr. Wingman here, it hardly does me any good. What happened to the whole sisterhood thing? And this after I came to you, hat in hand--” “You were dragged in,” Fiona reminded her. “Laundry basket in hand. Then we had to all but sit on you to squeeze the details out of you. If you want us to be all supportive and on your side, then, you know, you have to actually give us something to side with. So far, all we’ve heard is how you didn’t know how he felt, and then he sent your entire world spinning off its axis with that--” “Fiona--” Kerry said, clear warning in her tone. But it was too late. Logan had walked back to the group and was just saying he had a sailboat lined up and did they want a captain or were they going to sail it themselves, when he overheard the last bit of Fiona’s statement and paused. He turned to look at Kerry, then perhaps a tad more menacingly at Cooper. “With that…what?” Before Cooper could remind him about their recently established wingman/bro code status, Logan’s wife slid past him and hooked her arm through her husband’s and tipped up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “Remember our first kiss?” She gave him a meaningful look to go with what was clearly a very private smile. “So I really don’t think you want to go there. Do you?” Logan cleared his throat. “Right, so…as you were,” he finally said. “I’ve got to get back to the station. Keep the mean streets of Blueberry Cove safe.” “Coward!” Kerry called after his retreating back. “See?” Delia said. “We have our ways.” “Except you’re supporting the wrong side,” Kerry said. “Oh, that all depends on how you define ‘sides,’” Grace put in. “We’re on the side of love.” She drew out that last word, making it sound almost like a coo, with Fiona joining her, both of them adding an exaggerated batting of lashes, aimed first at Kerry, then at Cooper. Fiona added a little heart made by steepling her fingers together. Logan looked back over his shoulder. He was grinning now. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll head back to the airport right now,” he called to Cooper. Cooper lifted his hand in a wave. “No worries, mate.

She shielded her eyes from the sun, her truck keys dangling down the back of her free hand, as Cooper lowered the passenger window and leaned forward so he could see her. “G’day, Starfish. Need a lift?” She needed a lot of things. Hot coffee, sisters who weren’t nosy, a clear vision about what should be next on her life agenda. Being inside a small, sporty vehicle, trapped mere inches from Cooper Jax, even for the short ride down to Half Moon Harbor? That she definitely did not need. “I’m good, thanks. And can we retire the nickname? Please?” He’d begun calling her that after she’d regaled him with a steady string of childhood stories of life lived by the sea, and he’d commented that she seemed too big a fish for such a small pond. A starfish, as it were. She’d rolled her eyes at the very bad pun, but the nickname had stuck. Aussies were big on nicknames. And the honest truth of it was, she hadn’t minded hearing him call her that, even though it had been a joke, delivered as a ribbing, not an endearment. Now? Now she wasn’t sure how he meant it, or what it made her feel when he said it. Better to just bury it right, Ker? Like you do everything that makes you uncomfortable. She really needed to find a way to strangle her little voice. “I’ve got a meeting,” she went on, not giving him a chance to respond. He nodded to the basket in her arms. “Yes, I can see that. Demanding lot, laundry.” She glanced down, then back at him. “No, with my sisters. About Fiona’s wedding.” “Yes, I heard about it.” She didn’t ask how he could possible know that, or who he’d been talking to this time, because any person in town could have brought him up to speed on the goings-on about pretty much any person he wanted to know about. The downside to being home. One of the great things about being a wanderer was that folks only knew whatever parts of her story she opted to share with them. Cooper, she realized now, had already known more than pretty much anyone she’d met in her travels up to that point. God only knows what he’d learned in the twenty-four hours he’d been in the Cove. She didn’t want to examine how that made her feel either. “Three McCrae weddings in less than a year,” he commented, as if casually discussing the weather. Then he grinned. “Is it catching?

I’ve got a meeting,” she went on, not giving him a chance to respond. He nodded to the basket in her arms. “Yes, I can see that. Demanding lot, laundry.

I’m taking thirty to shower and give myself a full body lift. You’ll thank me later,” she parroted back to her sister. “Says the sister who was born looking like an Olympian. Wah-wah.” Kerry stood and stretched, stifling a groan as every muscle in her body protested. So much for the restorative powers of sleep. She grabbed her last fresh pair of khaki shorts, decided which of her already worn T-shirts was the least questionable, made a mental note to take her laundry basket with her when she left, then sighed as she caught sight of her restless night, wild-child hair once again in the mirror. If only Cooper could see your oh-so-sexy self now, she thought, he’d book the next flight out. “Kerry?” “Well,” she said, making a face at herself in the mirror, “if there was an Olympic even for bed head, I’d take the gold right now, no question. Even the Russian judge would have to cave and give me a ten.” “I’d say give me a break, but come to think of it, I have seen you in the morning.” “Bite me.” “Oh, and because you brought it up,” Fiona added, her voice dripping with sugar once again, “make sure you book some extra time to tell us every last detail about your dead-sexy Aussie fiancé.” “He’s not my--” “Hurry!” Fiona interrupted as group laughter echoed through the phone from somewhere behind her; then she hung up. Kerry looked at the dead phone, then tossed it on the bed, mumbling swear words in several languages under her breath.

He found his scrappy older brother all soft around the edges, doting on his beautiful, sexy young wife, ever at her hand. If he saw her wrestling a full laundry basket into the bedroom, he took it from her. If she had the step stool pulled over to the cupboards to reach into the highest one for a platter, he lifted her down and got it for her. Aiden was anxious to have dinner with them to see if Luke cut Shelby’s meat. Aiden

To Disclose or Not Disclose I just saw a poster: "Dirty laundry goes here (laundry basket) not here (Facebook logo)." Online and in person, withholding personal information is a discreet way of regulating what people learn, think, and know about you. There are times when keeping it real and keeping it honest will reveal your authenticity and trustworthiness, but there are other times, however, when things are better left unsaid or locked away. Hence the term TMI, meaning "Too Much Information!" Discretion is part of "keeping it real" in professional (and self) respect.

I got my first time for the monthlies when I was eleven. I picked up a basket full of laundry and felt something hot and wet run down my legs. I set the basket down and looked down to see the red streaks. No one had ever talked to me about it, but I wasn’t afraid. I knew from doing the laundry that women bled once a month.

a man I could be proud of. I hoped that someday he would give up his dream of winning Evelyn back and find another partner to share his life. Then, there was Donna. She was a strange, independent child, coming and going as she wanted, living where she chose, but I loved her and was proud of her, too. So I counted my failures and counted my blessings. It wasn’t a regular prayer, but I finally was able to sleep so I could face the next day. Chapter 69 George spent more and more time in the back yard, talking to Stella over the fence. I didn’t pay that much attention to it. In his late seventies, he didn’t ask me for relations anymore, and that was a relief to me. One Tuesday in 1958 I came out of the basement door carrying a basket of laundry. When I opened the door, George was in Stella’s yard, his hands cupped around her face, kissing her on the cheek. Stella was leaning into him, with an easy familiarity.

We’ll be heading home tomorrow.” My head jerked up. So did Mama’s. Had Daddy’s announcement shocked her that much—or not at all? I couldn’t tell. “So soon?” The words came out before I thought. I clamped my lips shut. Mama rolled up her needlepoint. “And of course you’ll be coming with us, Rebekah Grace.” The words I had been waiting for but didn’t want to hear. Frank looked as taut as a laundry line. I shoved James’s pants back in the basket, trying to keep my voice steady. “I . . . I hadn’t planned to.” “But you can’t stay here—alone.” Her gaze raced back and forth between Frank’s face and mine. “It’s unseemly.” Frank clenched his fists, his eyes flashing anger. He looked like a cat ready to pounce. “No one around here seems to think such a thing. Your daughter has cared for my children. I happen to think the Lord sent her here on their behalf.” My head jerked up. Did he really believe that? Mama stared at Frank as if she’d never seen him before. No color lit her cheeks, but a slight tremor moved her lips. “Yet you’ve ruined her all the same.” I gasped. “Mama!” “I don’t intend to take advantage of your daughter in any way at all, Mrs. Hendricks.” An edge hard as iron encased his words. I sucked in my breath and held it. “I guarantee you’ll have your daughter home before the end of March.” Almost six weeks. What was he planning to do between now and then? Court a new wife? Hire a new housekeeper? Would he let me be privy to his plans, or did he think I wouldn’t need to know what would become of the children? “Are y’all going to plan my whole life for me? Don’t I have any say?” I jammed my fists on my hips, my cheeks burning. Daddy crossed the room, took Mama by the hand. “You’re welcome to come with us, Rebekah, but I’m thinking Frank could use your help.” “But—” Mama bit off her words at Daddy’s look. “We can trust Rebekah to do what is right, Margaret.” “Fine. But if she stays, I’m buying her ticket home myself.” She glared at Frank. “You can pick it up at the station on your next trip to town.

no one paid attention and when Elle bounced back in, she turned the sensor on again and shut the door. ‘Let’s have some of our feast now!’ she said. ‘Good thinking,’ said Isi as she reached into the laundry basket and took

hatch our survival plan in the coolest place we could find. We made our way into the cluttered room at the windowed front of the deckhouse—what our boat builders back in Hong Kong called the “lavish grand salon” in their sales brochures. With us, it was more like the messy rumpus room. True, the room had, as advertised, “a curved couch, sleek teak paneling, and hardwood cabinetry with a built-in sink.” But the sink had dirty dishes and empty soda bottles in it, the paneled walls were cluttered with a collection of my parents’ favorite treasures (including a conquistador helmet, a rare African tribal mask, a grog jug shaped like a frog, a rusty cannonball from a Confederate gunboat, a bronze clock covered with cherubs that probably belonged to King Louis XIV, and, in a glass shadow box, a rusty steak knife from the Titanic). There were assorted trinkets, necklaces, and coconut heads suspended from the ceiling. Add a heap of scuba and snorkel gear and assorted socks, shoes, and T-shirts on the floor (the floor is our laundry basket), and our grand salon looked more like a live-in recycling bin. “Have we even seen a map for this treasure hunt?” asked Beck. “Nope. Dad just said we needed to be in the Caymans.” “Then we need to find his map.

Never underestimate the audacity of the small minded and slightly crapulous. A rather bleezed young neighbour decided to have a grammar battle with me. It lasted all of two seconds. I said something slightly amicable, and he responded with, “You sure that's how you use that word?” I put down my laundry basket and turned to him slowly and deliberately. “Do you really want to have this discussion with me, son, or do you want to go home and rethink your life?” He grumbled and vanished.

I was thinking about how much I love you.” “That’s a funny thing for a husband to say to his wife.” “It’s true, though.” Paul pressed her hand to his lips. “I can’t imagine what my life would be like without you.” “Tidier,” she said, because Paul was the one who was always picking up abandoned shoes and various items of clothing that should’ve been put in the laundry basket but somehow ended up in front of the bathroom sink.

This project may be preceeded or followed by the clothing organization steps found in the next section of this book. ORGANIZE CLOTHING examples of storage bedroom closet (walk-in or standard) dresser armoire underbed storage boxes trunk or storage ottoman nightstand supplies needed trash bags/recycling bin, donation box, relocation box, fix-it box spray cleaner and cleaning cloth broom and dust pan and/or vacuum storage containers label maker and/or tags to hang from containers/baskets time commitment 4–10 hours quick assessment questions What are the main categories of clothing? What items could be placed in off-season storage? What types of things need quick and instant access? potential goals for this space make getting ready in the morning a snap make it easier to put away clothing in the evening and on laundry day get rid of clothing that no longer fits create a new wardrobe make the closet visually appealing quick-toss list any clothing that is stained or ripped shoes that are past their prime clothing left over from the high school years (unless, of course, you’re still in high school) souvenir t-shirts broken jewelry socks without mates underwear that has lost its elasticity dry-cleaner hangers and plastic bags storage containers bins/boxes/baskets that are open-top bins/boxes/baskets with lids

potential goals for this space make getting ready in the morning a snap make it easier to put away clothing in the evening and on laundry day get rid of clothing that no longer fits create a new wardrobe make the closet visually appealing quick-toss list any clothing that is stained or ripped shoes that are past their prime clothing left over from the high school years (unless, of course, you’re still in high school) souvenir t-shirts broken jewelry socks without mates underwear that has lost its elasticity dry-cleaner hangers and plastic bags storage containers bins/boxes/baskets that are open-top bins/boxes/baskets with lids double

No. Way. Are you freaking serious?” I screamed as I flattened myself against the wall of my laundry room with a thud, trying not to hyperventilate. “There’s a hand in the laundry basket. There’s a hand in the laundry basket. There’s a hand in the damn laundry basket.

train, it wasn't surprising on how many of Jiro's moves mirrored Hanzo's. "He should be calling me right about…" Jiro heard the shower being turned off from upstairs and he knew Hanzo more than likely had forgotten to bring in a towel. Jiro never understood why humans couldn't just shake themselves dry as he and other animals did. "Jiro! Come here, boy!" Hanzo's voice resonated throughout the house. Jiro didn't waste any time running upstairs to Hanzo. He already knew what the man wanted, so Jiro made his way over to the laundry basket filled with clean laundry, and grabbed a towel out. "Good boy!" Jiro barked and made his way back downstairs. Hanzo would be another twenty minutes or so, so Jiro was going to practice some of the moves that he had seen Hanzo do.

It was after midnight when I shut my laptop and walked upstairs, entering our dark room. I sat down on our bed and felt him stir. What do I remember about waking him? I remember my husband being disoriented. Of course he was disoriented—his wife woke him up, using another woman’s name in the dark, a name she wasn’t supposed to know. Maybe you want a scene here—you want “show don’t tell,” you want to “see it,” you want the author to “put you in the room”—but I can’t build a scene from this amnesia. I can’t show you because I can’t see it or hear it myself. But while we’re on the subject: Why would you want to be in that room with us? Why would you want to see the faded turquoise quilt on our bed, and the laundry basket full of clean, folded clothes near the closet doors, and the narrow sliver of streetlight making its way through a crack in the curtains? Maybe I’m sparing you something.

You’re not supposed to do my laundry.” “Well, you’re not supposed to interrupt me watching Gossip Girl reruns. But here we are.” “I don’t need you to do my laundry.” I sit up with a deep sigh. “Okay. We’re really fixating on that? It was some towels and a few sweaters. Not your tight boxers. So let’s just cool our jets, yeah? They were already in the basket, and I’m not lazy, so I tossed them in the washer. Not a big deal. No need to put me on death row over it.” He stares at me, but rather than scowling, he appears a little perplexed. “No one has ever done my laundry for me.” “Probably because it’s not worth facing the electric chair over.

Then I scamper down to the laundry room and yank open the dryer door. Kay’s mountain of school sweatshirts tumbles out, along with my breeches. But I can’t find my white button-down anywhere in the pile. I sift through the sweatshirts again, tossing them haphazardly in the laundry basket. Still no white shirt. I reach my hand deep into the far corner of the dryer and pull out the only thing that’s left, a purple tie-dyed shirt. Huh, I don’t remember Kay having any purple tie-dyed shirts . . . Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh nooooo. The purple pen must have fallen out of Luis’s jacket pocket while I was putting the clothes in the washer last night! And then exploded in the dryer! All over my white button-down! Which also seems to be several sizes smaller than it was last night. Did I mention this is not good? Oh noooooooooo!

At midmorning the next day, she stood out by the line, hanging the laundry up to dry. But when she reached into the basket for the last item, a worn, moss-green shirt, she found it empty. Looking up, she saw the little fox holding the shirt in its mouth. It leapt, dropping the shirt, then picked it up again.

Sir William frowned. "Where did you get that jacket?" he asked. Immediately he shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. "No, don't tell me. I've a feeling I don't want to know. Some washing line or laundry basket between here and Marylebone, no doubt.

10 Items People Forget To Pack When Moving Into A New Home Moving into a new home with your family is the world’s happiest thing. In the excitement of shifting from an old house to a new one, people often forget some of the most obvious and essential items. In this article, I am listing down the 10 most essential items people forget to buy or pack when moving into a new home. Let’s get started. 10 Items People Forget To Pack When Moving Into A New Home 1. Smart Door Lock – This should be your number one priority especially if you have kids and pets. Buy the best smart door lock to keep your loved ones safe. 2. Laundry Basket – Yes, one of the most obvious things that you forgot to pack. This is the last thing that comes to mind when packing, and sometimes it’s completely missed. 3. Extra Bulb – Always keep an extra bulb with you even if all the bulbs in your new home are working fine. You never know when you might need one. 4. Drapes & Curtains – This will help you keep your windows covered if you do not want neighbors peeping inside your home. 5. Extension Cord – Not all your electronic appliances will have long cords. It’s best to have an extension cord handy so that you do not struggle to operate your home and kitchen appliances. 6. Ladder – Reaching your attic or storage space to store your belongings will be easy if you have a ladder with you. 7. Home Cleaning Essentials – Some areas of your home might need cleaning as soon as you shift, especially your living room where you will first gather all your packed stuff to starting arranging them in their correct places. This is when you will need cleaning supplies so that your new home doesn’t look dirty. 8. Wardrobe Hanger – The wardrobe hanger will help you arrange your clothes in a neat manner and will take less space so that you can accommodate more. 9. Kitchen Linens – If you love to walk into a clean kitchen this is a must-have item and you should not forget to pack these. 10. Flashlight – You never know when you might have to use a flashlight so it’s best to have one or two of these handy.

I keep getting drunk. There’s no more interesting way to say it. Only drunk does the volume crank down. Liquor no longer lets me bullshit myself that I’m taller, faster, funnier. Instead, it shrinks me to a plodding zombie state in which one day smudges into every other—it blurs time. Swaying on the back landing in the small hours, I stare at the boxy garage and ghostly replicas of it multiplying along either side, like playing cards spread against the slate sky. Though this plural perspective is standard, I’m surprised by my own shitfaced state. The walkman sends punk rock banging across the tiny bones of my ears. And with the phonebook-sized stack of papers on my lap still unmarked, I—once more, with feeling—take the pledge to quit drinking. Cross my heart. Pinky swear to myself. This is it, I say, the last night I sit here. Okay, I say in my head. I give. You’re right. (Who am I talking to? Fighting with?) By the next afternoon, while I’m lugging the third armload of groceries up the back stairs, Dev, who’s bolted ahead to the living room, shrieks like he’s been stabbed, and I drop the sack on the kitchen floor, hearing as it hits what must be a jar of tomato sauce detonating. In the living room, I find Dev has leaped—illicitly, for the nine hundredth time—off the sofa back, trying to land in the clothes basket like a circus diver into a bucket of water. He’s whapped his noggin on the coffee table corner. Now dead center on his pale, formerly smooth forehead, there’s a blue knot like a horn trying to break through. I gather him up and rush to the kitchen, aiming to grab a soothing bag of frozen peas. But I step on a shard of tomato sauce jar, gash my instep, slide as on a banana peel, barely hanging on to Dev till we skid to a stop. I tiptoe across the linoleum, dragging a snail of blood till I can plop him in a kitchen chair, instructing him to hold the peas to his head and not move an inch while I bunny-hop upstairs to bandage my foot. Coming back, I find he’s dragged the formerly white laundry into the kitchen to mop up the tomato sauce. I’m helping, he says, albeit surrounded by gleaming daggers of glass while on his forehead the blue Bambi horn seems to throb. Minutes later, my hand twists off a beer cap as I tell myself that a beer isn’t really a drink after all. So I have another after that to speed preparing the pot roast, and maybe even a third. Before we head to the park, I tuck two more beer bottles in my coat pocket, plus one in my purse alongside a juice box.

wear disposable rubber gloves instead of insulated gloves on a very cold winter day or wear a laundry basket on your head instead of a cap on a hot summer day?

When I deeply see: • bedsheets painted with highlighter? … children live here! • dead rose left too long in vase? … lingering memories of a brother’s gift. • Great-grandma’s wicker laundry basket overflowing in the mudroom? … we had a full, rich weekend! • vehicle souvenirs — a collection of shoes, Sunday school paper, Lego pieces? … we’ll gather them up too. • study table spread out with thoughts and ideas? … we’re thinking now. • a pile of tossed shoes on a shelf in the garage? … worn days of a good summer. • stack of tattered books? … stories that have become real.

There were no free spaces in the school’s parking lot. Adam ended up parking illegally—live on the edge—and hurrying toward the school. The side door was locked. Adam had never done this before—visited Corinne during a school day—but he knew that all schools had taken up stringent security protocols in the wake of shootings and other violence. He circled toward the front door. It was also locked. Adam pressed the intercom button. A camera whirred down on him, and the weary female voice that could only belong to someone working in a school’s main office asked him who he was. He put on his most disarming smile. “It’s Adam Price. Corinne’s husband.” The door buzzed. Adam pushed through the doors. A sign read CHECK IN AT THE MAIN DESK. He wasn’t sure what to do here. If he signed in, they would want to know why and probably buzz down to the classroom. He didn’t want that. He wanted to surprise Corinne or, at the very least, not need to explain to the staff why he was here. The office was on the right. Adam was about to turn left and just hurry down the opposite way when he saw the armed security guard. He aimed his most disarming smile at the guard. The guard offered one back. No choice now. He’d have to go to the main office. He veered through the door and weaved past a few local moms. There was a huge laundry basket in the middle of the floor where parents dropped off lunches for their kids who forgot to bring them in the morning. The

I’m eighteen weeks down some celebrity’s time line on Instagram, trying to see when they took their engagement ring off (for what reason? I have no idea), holding a laundry basket in my other hand. I am sure I used to be more interesting than this, though I can’t quite remember in what way.