I see London, I see France ...

Recently, I was in my yard, chatting over the fence with my neighbour. She was hanging her clothes on her line, and I was trying not to stare at her bloomers. Then, she casually said to me, "So, do you ever plan to use your clothesline?" (Yes, there was slight judgement in her tone. Slight. But present.)

"Um, what? I have a clothesline?"

She pointed up. Way up. At this thing in my yard that runs across our property line, nearly at roof level.

I'd always wondered what it was, but the people who lived in our house before us were a little eccentric, so there was a chance it could have been anything. Like, maybe a tightrope. (I'd chosen to ignore it, and had planned to deal with it when Joseph got older, invested in a unicycle and told me he was joining the circus and needed to practice.)

"That's a clothesline?" I said. My neighbour explained that the previous owners used it all the time. And not as a tightrope. Alas.

(Okay, time to be honest here. I didn't really think it was a tightrope. I always kind of suspected it was a clothesline, but a) had no idea how to use it aside from climbing the roof and risking life and limb to dry my clothes in the sun and b) it was so high up that the idea of hoisting my gitch and brassieres for the entire neighbourhood to see kind of freaked me out. Instead, I chose to plaster my basement with clothes in one of my many misguided and guilt-driven attempts to reduce my carbon footprint, and then, finally, when I realized they were never going to dry without starting to smell like feet first, I'd put the clothes in the dryer and turn off all the lights as penance. I know. It's a glamorous life I lead. Being a soon-to-be-published author is not all champs and party dresses.)

"I just have no idea how I would ever use it," I said to my neighbour. "And I should probably run. I think one of the children has set something on fire." (Not really. Obviously. My children are angels. Or, at least don't have access to matches.)

Then my neighbour reached across the fence and pointed to a metal handle thingie against the wall. "You just pull that and it comes down," she said. "Easy peasy."

"Great, thanks," I said.

"I'm so happy to help out," she replied, and went back to hanging her bloomers to dry below eye level.

Now that I know I have a working clothesline in my backyard (it's big enough to fit my entire wardrobe at one time, and that's saying a lot) I cannot, in good conscience, refrain from using it. I tried the metal handle thingie, and it really is easy frigging peasy. So, I'm officially turning off my dryer. Even if the moment I raise my underpants up the pole, I'm going to have a summer camp-related post-panty raid flashback, and envision my undies (white, with Friday emblazoned on them in pink; I was that kind of kid), flapping in the breeze at the top of the flagpole. Shudder.
With all the carbon I'll save, perhaps I'll fly to London. Or France.

xo, M.