House Husbandry
My career as a house husband began with, well, something akin to disaster. After collecting the towels from all the baths, I approached the washing machine with great confidence. The CFO, you understand, had already given me the short course in "Modern Washer and Dryer Techniques". You just set this thing-a-ma-bob here for underwear, and over there for jeans and over yonder towels. For cottons, use this temperature setting and for "delicates" that one. Put detergent here. Push this button. It was all crystal clear. After that, I surmised, you could just smoke a cigar, enjoy a beer in the Lounge Lizard, and come back in half an hour when the washing machine thing had done its thing.
So I did.
The floor was a sea of wash water. Soap bubbles oozed from the lid and down the side of the machine. And, that unmistakable hint of overheated phenolic-based thermal-setting plastic used in the electrical insulation of electric motors hung heavy in the air.
I came to an immediate conclusion that something was terribly wrong.
Seems that, on post-trauma analysis by the CFO, it is not good technique to fill the machine to the brim with towels in order to avoid a second washing. Better to put in half a load, smoke a cigar, enjoy a beer, come back in half an hour, take out the first half of the load and put in the second half, smoke a second cigar, drink another beer, etc.
By the time I had recovered from this disaster, it was time for a trip down the mountain to consult with my financial advisor over a barbecue sandwich and sweetea at Little Richard's in Winston-Salem. We have a nice lunch (on his tab!) going over retirement options. Of the five or six I presented, the only one he rejected out of hand was full-time house husbandry (on account of, I suspect, the expense of new washing machines). Much to my relief, he found a couple of proposals reasonable and one of them -- now designated Plan R-1 -- he actually got downright giddy about. It was a great relief to know my 60-year old brain is still capable of formulating a good idea or three that can get a financial guy excited when the occasion arises.
So I did.
The floor was a sea of wash water. Soap bubbles oozed from the lid and down the side of the machine. And, that unmistakable hint of overheated phenolic-based thermal-setting plastic used in the electrical insulation of electric motors hung heavy in the air.
I came to an immediate conclusion that something was terribly wrong.
Seems that, on post-trauma analysis by the CFO, it is not good technique to fill the machine to the brim with towels in order to avoid a second washing. Better to put in half a load, smoke a cigar, enjoy a beer, come back in half an hour, take out the first half of the load and put in the second half, smoke a second cigar, drink another beer, etc.
By the time I had recovered from this disaster, it was time for a trip down the mountain to consult with my financial advisor over a barbecue sandwich and sweetea at Little Richard's in Winston-Salem. We have a nice lunch (on his tab!) going over retirement options. Of the five or six I presented, the only one he rejected out of hand was full-time house husbandry (on account of, I suspect, the expense of new washing machines). Much to my relief, he found a couple of proposals reasonable and one of them -- now designated Plan R-1 -- he actually got downright giddy about. It was a great relief to know my 60-year old brain is still capable of formulating a good idea or three that can get a financial guy excited when the occasion arises.
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