The Wisconsin Handwashing Massacre

I try not to be one of those kids.

You know. The ones that after 3 months of being away from home, pile suitcase upon suitcase of dirty laundry into their station wagons and zip off home, for free laundry and free food.

Not because I don't enjoy laundry and free food. But because of my parents' laundry critiques. In the world of Amy and my precious bag of quarters, there are two sorting hats when it comes to my laundry-- cold. And warm. None of this whites, blues, reds or teals crap. You either go in one washer or the next. No buts about it.

But if there's one thing I'm a stickler about-- if it says "handwash" on the label, as sure as Pope Benedict has a cooler wardrobe with more bling than I do, you have better believe I handwash.

And I even do it with a smile on my face. Gotta love the smell of that Woolite.

So there I was Sunday afternoon. Perched at the side of my bathtub, delighting in the scent of my handwashing labor. I was washing a special shirt, that was only to be pulled from its special perch in my closet on July 3, when my manfriend arrives for a night out on the town in Milwaukee.

Hang to dry, watch "Enchanted," eat a chocolate sundae. Boom. The recipe for a perfect Sunday evening. I swear, every good day should start with handwashing.

Monday morning, pulling back the shower curtain for the grand ta-da!, I stumbled back in horror.

My shower curtain was covered in blood. Drippy droppy dried blood. All over the place. Someone had stabbed my special shirt, and it bled and bled and bled, making my shower no longer the scene of soapy sensations, but rather, more like a horror movie.

I couldn't figure it out. For the life of me. What had died in my shower? Who had killed it? And why with such violence? What was the need? What kind of coldblooded killer was out there?

After closer examination and some rationalization (that usually doesn't kick in until 10 minutes after the alarm clock rings) I realized, the dye from the special shirt had simply stained my beloved shower curtain. But now with my shower shirtless, there remains the scars of the handwashing incident.

Which will no doubt explain why everyone that frequents my bathroom from this point forward will run away shrieking in fear.

It really does look like blood. Yikes.