Trouser Snake Comes Clean

I have resigned myself, and the folks in this house, to wearing dirty clothes for the rest of our natural lives. I don’t care if the little people in this house will suddenly become “the stinky kid” in class. I don’t care if people move away from me in crowds. It doesn’t even matter if nobody ever asks me to dance again. I’m just not willing to take the risk.

Last Friday in Maine, Ms. Mara Ranger of Gorham, Maine, found an eight foot long, reticulated python in her washer.

She found it by sticking her hand in to take out a pair of wet jeans. I don’t want to be Ms. Ranger. Oh sure, lots of people have told me that there aren’t any poisonous snakes in New England. And, I’m well aware that pythons aren’t poisonous. On the other hand, I’m deathly afraid of snakes and I don’t give a flying fig if it’s poisonous, domesticated, or knows how to make coffee in the morning. I’m having no part of it.

Frankly, I’m even considering having the washer removed. There are male people in this house. We know how they are. They have the unfortunate compulsion to do things like grab the object that disturbs the girl and wave it at her. I have little doubt that many of them, given the chance to get hold of a well aged corpse, would overcome their own fear and disgust for the prime opportunity of wiggling it in front of any female in the vicinity. I’m going to nip this one in the bud.

I couldn’t find a chart that measured the chances of finding a python in my washer, but even if the odds against it were stellar, it wouldn’t comfort me. My sister once had a boa constrictor she named “Baby”. I stopped visiting her the day she called to tell me she’d obtained it. A couple years later she called to tell me it had run away. I asked, “On what legs?” Knowing it was now lurking around the neighborhood, I decided not to even set foot in the same state. It could have been anywhere.

The decision to give up doing laundry might have bothered me at first, but on reflection, it really does give one a whole, new sense of freedom and possibility. Lily Pulitzer got rich by inventing a now famous clothing line because she wanted aprons that would hide the juice stains. I wonder what I can do with mustard.

If I flew anywhere, I wouldn’t have to worry about annoying people sitting next to me for hours. Even in first class, I promise you, a month or two of no clean laundry and folks would rather duct tape themselves to the wings than sit inside scent range. I could take the bus and frighten homeless people. One of the really convenient bits is that when you smell peculiar, nobody will mention it to you. The elevator is all yours. Worst case scenario, someone will leave a stick of Right Guard and a bar of Irish Spring on your desk when you aren’t looking. I don’t have a desk. I can offend everyone in the area without fear of retaliation. Besides, it would be pretty hard to hurt my feelings by telling me I should wear something that didn’t just come out of the hamper when my prepared response is, “No can do. I’ve given up soap.” Never again will I have to fight with other women about who gets hold of the bargain blouse on the sale rack. They’ll give me a wide berth until I’m done with the entire department.

This is looking better and better all the time. No more fears of strangers touching the kids. No stranger would get close enough. I think I just found the solution to pedophilia.

That’s it. I’m off to be a hero. I’m going to throw on last week’s shorts and haul my cookies down to the police station to share this flash of brilliance with the local constabulary. I’ll be able to save all the children of the world from predators, as well as saving their parents from one more chore, if only I can get a cop to stand close enough to me to listen to my cunning plan. I’m crossing my fingers, but not changing my socks.