Laundry Bitch At Your Service

Everyone should have a pet name for themselves, don't you think?  Of course, you do.  It's important you agree with me on everything.  Around here, I'm known as the Laundry Bitch, mainly because that's what I call myself as I'm schlepping the laundry basket downstairs.  I'm sure there are nicer names I could give myself:  Rock of Middle Ages.  Supreme Goddess of Sherman Oaks.  But Laundry Bitch is the one I prefer.  It sums up so many things about the job at hand:  "Yeah, you heard me, I'm doing the @#$%'n laundry again.  Your laundry.   And maybe a little bit of mine.  But mainly, your @#$%'n laundry.  I sure hope there aren't any surprises in there."  Most likely, this laundry bitchery stems from the fact that sometimes, there are weird things in those pockets that no one seems to check, pre-wash.  Apparently, that's my responsibility.  Which explains why certain unwashables have gone through the rinse cycle more times than I care to disclose.  Watches, wallets.  Bus passes.  Loose change.  Cash.  I've laundered money more than once.  "Oh, look what I found!  A clean 20.  Finders-keepers."  With one son in college, ruining his own laundry, and one living in his own apartment, you'd think the SJG would get to slack off, laundry-wise.  Au contraire!  Let's not forget my main purpose on earth, my raison d'etre, the role I was born to play:  Overly Solicitous Jewish Mother/Glutton for Punishment.  Why should my eldest do his laundry when I can do it for him?  He works all day.  I'm happy to wash his clothes.  Except when he forgets to take things out of the pockets.  Then I'm not so happy.  Not happy at all.  The other day, a piece of gum played peek-a-boo in his jeans.  Naturally, I only discovered this game when I opened the dryer and spotted the minty fresh green goo shellacking the interior.  First, I swore a bit.  I cursed the gods and my own existence.  Then, I sent the eldest some pointed text messages:  "How old are you again?"  "Spanky-spanky!"  "No dessert for you."  Sometimes, it just feels good to vent.  Next, I got busy with the Googling.  "How the @#$% do I get gum out of the dryer?!"  I found many interesting suggestions, and tried all of them.  The one that worked best,  I'll share with you now, in case, God forbid, you find yourself in the same sticky situation.  Dampen a fabric softener sheet, your Bounce, your Snuggle, and wipe like there's no tomorrow.  Eventually, the gum will peel off, along with the tips of your fingies and your will to live.  But hey, that's okay.  What's a mother for?  The Laundry Bitch is here for you, ready to spread the love and the resentment, whenever possible.