The pattern of my life is, apparently, an ink spot. Or several score of them.
Yesterday when I was working. I got an e-mail from Heidi with the following subject line:
A stowaway pen in one of my pants pockets had stained every single item of white clothing in that load. She was venting. I immediately called home to offer my mea culpa. Anna was especially peeved since it had stained one of her favorite pajamas.
This is what happened to one of my white T-shirts.
Realizing that this was a fight that I would never win, I have been MUCH better about emptying my pants pockets. But a rogue pen still slips through, even though it's probably been at least 3-4 years since we've had ink carnage of this magnitude.
The funny part of all of this is that it was mostly my clothes that were damaged. The pants, I think, are beyond repair but that's okay because they were starting to get a hole in the pant leg.
But in surveying the damage, I found that another of my bad habits actually saved some of the clothes. My complete and utter inability to turn clothes right side out after taking them off meant that it was mostly the insides of the shirts that were stained. Miraculously, the other side seems pretty much untouched, although that makes no logical sense.
It will not be the last pen to go through the wash for I am me and am nothing if not absent-minded. But Heidi washed a flash drive left in HER pants pocket the other day so at least we're karmically even. Or something like that.