It was spring break, and I was cleaning like a mad-woman. In a small alternate-reality-dwelling, tucked-away corner of my mind, I equate spring with cleaning. Weird.
I was completing my umpteenth load of laundry when I noticed that there were markings on many of the items of clothing that came spilling out of the dryer. I saw it on one of Ty's shirts, then one of my own, then on a pair of Sassy's jeans...
My knee-jerk reaction was to get on the phone and start screeching at Tyler for leaving a pen or a chap stick in his pocket YET AGAIN. I stopped myself, however, after distinctly remembering rifling through each and every one of his pockets prior to throwing the clothes in the wash. By golly, I've learned my lesson the hard way once or fourteen times before.
Drastic times call for drastic measures.
Tyler is to be permanently classified as a third child under the realm of all things laundry, meaning no pocket must be left unchecked.
I'd covered my bases. I know I had.
I pulled each and every item of clothing out of the dryer slowly, examining every seam, every sleeve, every collar. I grew more and more disheartened.
A mixed load is what I call it. You know, when you don't have enough laundry for your neat little laundry organizational system categories, so you grab the last odds and ends and throw them all together... just to feel the satisfaction of having NO laundry left in the respective hampers, stewing away?
Yeah, this load contained a fair share from each of our 4 wardrobes, including several pairs of Tyler's work khakis, the girls best jeans, and a few of my favorite tops. Each piece more marred than the previous by this mysterious grey clay-like substance that was just baffling my mind...
...That is until I pulled out the last item from the dryer and found this...
...and it all became clear.
A crayon wrapper.
A freaking shriveled up, worn out, barely-recognizable wrapper from a broken piece of crayon. In my dryer. Having met it's end somewhere in this cavernous receptacle, spreading its molten wax in seemingly exponential proportions all over our beautiful clothing.
Even I couldn't think of a way to pin this one on Tyler.
I was pretty upset. I think it was in part the culmination of all the stress that spring break (i.e. no school) entailed, and I admit it... I called Tyler at work in tears, begging him to research home remedies for crayons-in-the-dryer because my spirit just couldn't take it.
Tyler returned home from work with an arsenal of supplies. First we tried a hot soak in a concoction of laundry detergent, Oxy-Clean, Borax, and Shout...
It soaked and soaked and soaked...
... and soaked and soaked and soaked some more...
To our dismay, the stains became only slightly less waxy, and still very grey-blue-black. That stupid crayon... of course it snuck by me before it hit the dryer. It thought it was slick, hiding out in our clothes. Making it's way into the washing machine. Surviving the cold cycle, nestled inside some unassuming sleeve or pant-leg, hitching a ride right into the dryer without leaving a hint of itself behind. Just waiting for its moment to ATTACK our sweet, sweet apparel the moment the dryer began to tumble...
So, after line-drying our remaining casualties, all we were left with was a bunch of still-stained, stiff clothing. JOY.
It was time for plan B. Oh, I hated to even think of it. But, it was plan B or the trash. Tyler took to our clothes with the WD-40. Sprayed each spot and scrubbed them with scalding hot water.
Guess what?
The stains began to vanish.
One by one, they were all but disappearing...
We worked on the important stuff and threw our hands up in the air at a few items not worth the effort. We were promised by the wise gods of internet research that the WD-40 stench would lessen with each vinegar rinse in the washing machine.
So far... not so much.
So, for now, we have mostly stain-free things, albeit stinky. Sorry if we smell like a mechanic's garage. It's the price we must pay.
Take home message: DO NOT have your daughter's laundry hamper butt-up against her desk, where she likes to color often. Broken pieces of crayon will likely roll into her hamper. {This is, to this day, or best theory as to what actually transpired...}
And, remember, you little crayolas...
I will WIN.
You will LOSE.
Are we clear?
Good, then.
