Recently, a friend shared the first two seasons of "Downton Abbey" with me (yes, I was late jumping on the bandwagon, but I usually am). For two weeks, my life was consumed with the series as I played each episode any chance I could get. I was basically MIA.
I found myself fantasizing about what it must be like to have a whole staff of people taking care of the chores. I wondered what it must be like to leave a room and return finding the pillows plumped, the floors cleared, and everything in its place- as if by magic. Perhaps, I even became a little bit resentful as I considered such a life of ease...
So, to help tame the green monster, I decided to name my washing machine "Mrs. Hughes". When I consider that 150 years ago, I would also be the one scrubbing my laundry clean, my appreciation for the maid I keep in the garage increases. I just pile clothes in and say, "Mrs. Hughes, my knickers are in need of cleaning. Please wash them delicately so as not to distress the fabric." And then I walk inside and nibble a little bit of chocolate on my couch until it is time for me to get dressed.... which I have to do by myself, but I get by. Upon returning to the family room I find the pillows on my couch piled into a fort and toys strewn across the floor. The children are hungry and Mrs. Patmore is nowhere to be found. I guess I'll have to make the sandwiches again. Mrs. Hughes is done washing, but failed to rinse the soap completely from the clothes. They stink. This is not the first time this has happened. She will just need to rinse them again and remember that a tablespoon is really all that is needed to get the water mildly sudsy. And for pete's sake, how long does it take to dry a blasted load of laundry? I don't have all day. Lord Grantham's trousers need to be mended, but have sat untouched for weeks. And what on earth is my toothbrush doing on the floor?
It really is hard to find good help.