Purple DisDress

"Wash separately in cold water” items tend to drift to the bottom of my hamper, remaining there until a there's an accumulation sufficient to fill the industrial sized washer in my apartment complex. Trouble is, the purple dress has lived there for a couple of months and I worry about permanent permeation of eau de dirty laundry. So I decide to wash it. By hand.

I have a small bathroom sink, a very small sink. White (everything in my apartment is white). One capful of Woolite under a typical-apartment-low-pressure stream of cold water and bubbles overflow over the countertop. I dip the purple dress. Bubbles ooze down the sides of the cupboard. Purple bubbles. There is no stopping them.

I squish the dress into the water. The dress bleeds profusely, turning the sink water into a bath of deep dark purple.

I swirl the dress, slowly, careful not to splash. There are already spatters on the mirror.

I pull the stopper and cautiously turn on a slight stream of cold water, hoping to squelch the bubbles. No luck. Bubbles form on bubbles, a mountain now up to my elbows. I slide the bubbles off my arms, piling them on top of the mountain and step back, grabbing a blue and white striped hand towel. The white stripes turn purple as I pat the remaining stubborn bubbles off my arms.

I need a plan. I haven't taken my morning shower so perhaps I should just shower with the dress on. So I gently squeeze out the dress and roll it into the striped towel for transfer to the bathtub.

The towel starts to drip. I heave it into the bathtub. Splat. Purple splatters everywhere, the expensive white bath mat absorbs purple dye as fast as a dry sponge.

I step into the dark puddle of purple now growing bubbles up my leg. Pulling up on the shower valve, I step aside to avoid the initial cold-water blast. Purple spatters up and down the white tub over the white tile, purple water now up over my toes. Darn, I forgot to lift the tub plug latch.

Well, I am in deep trouble now. No way out other than to stand there, rinsing and rinsing until the dress stops bleeding. It doesn't stop. Now frozen from the cold water, I adjust for a warmer temperature, so what if the dress label says to wash in cold water. I can't take it.

I bend down, pushing, squishing the dress, now on my knees on the floor of the tub. My hands are purple. My feet are purple. My body looks as though I am suffering from purple measles.

It’s useless. No way is that purple dye going to quit. I give up, wrap the dress in the now purple and blue striped towel, squeeze out as much as I can and throw it over the shower wall into the sink. Scrub the shower walls, scrub myself, and finish up the shower.

I stand naked over the bathroom sink. Towel and dress have now stained the sink. I squeeze them out again and wrap them in my bath towel which happens to be purple and set them aside on the white toilet seat while I clean the sink.

My pink and white valentine robe hangs behind the bathroom door. I put it on and reach for the purple blob. Purple streaks now run across the toilet seat, down the sides, onto the white linoleum floor. I toss the mess back into the tub and grab the Clorox wipes. All I can think of is how linoleum absorbs stains and I certainly don't want my landlord after me for a new floor.

Meanwhile, the blob sits in the tub, streams of purple leading to the drain. The vicious cycle must be stopped. I gather up the goods once again and, this time, toss them into my white waste basket. Once again I rinse out the tub.

Okay, turning point. How do I dry this dripping purple mess? Can’t leave it hanging in the tub as originally planned. Can’t put it in the dryer for fear it will shrink or leave a purple mess and angry complex residents with lavender underwear. The only thing left is to hang it outside on the deck.

So I carry the wastebasket outside, shake out the dress, place it on a hanger and hang it on the nearest empty plant hook. As I turn away, I hear the drip, drip, drip. I think about how the deck was just re-stained last spring. Oh well, it will have character, that’s what I’ll tell the manager.

Back in the house, I find I must get the Clorox wipes out once again for the purple specks across the white kitchen linoleum, specks that have now been stepped in by Minnie and Rusty and tracked from door to door. I rinse out the wastebasket. My pink and white robe hangs back on the hook, white hearts now accented with tinges of purple.

As I approach my closet to dress for the day I see the new purple pantsuit hanging there. It bears the same tags as the dress. Shall I return it? Or shall I “Wear and Toss?”