to being barely seventeen and a certified serial kisser.
It all started one day with dirty laundry. At least that’s what I trace it back to.
My mother had said, “Evangeline, please. I could really use some help around the house.”
She’d looked so tired, and what with homework and the amount of time I’d been wasting at Groove Records looking through old LPs and CDs,
I had been slacking. Especially compared to the hours she’d been working.
So after school the next day I kicked into gear. I had the condo to myself because Mom was working her usual eleven A.M. to eight P.M. shift,
and since my taste in music is old blues and classic rock (probably thanks to being bombarded with it since my early days in the womb),
I selected an Aerosmith greatest hits CD and cranked it up.
I made the kitchen spotless during “Mama Kin,” “Dream On,” “Same Old Song and Dance,” and “Seasons of Wither,”
sang along with “Walk This Way” and “Sweet Emotion” while I cleaned the bathroom,
then tidied the bedrooms through “Last Child” and “Back in the Saddle.”
It was during the pulsing beat of “Dude (Looks Like a Lady)” that I began my fateful search for wayward laundry.
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