Swamp Things

Living in Michigan has taught me to appreciate the things I hated while growing up in Idaho and Utah, but living in a desert is the thing I took for granted the most. Yesterday we had torrential rain for six hours. Normally, I would have been elated to open the windows, smell the fresh, cool air, and snuggle up with Adam to enjoy the sexiness of a rainstorm of that magnitude. This storm, however, had no cooling effect on the 88-degree temperature and the air was anything but fresh. In weather like this, showering seems utterly pointless as one can never actually dry off afterward. Fixing my hair is also pointless because despite using the best in anti-humectant technology, it hangs in the same, shapeless and frizzy mass only moments after I unplug my flatiron. I must say I cannot stand amphibious living any longer!

The 80%-plus humidity also wreaks havoc on my laundry, and I am falling victim to what I deem the most horrific domestic odor: sour towels. I suffered from this travesty for the better part of my childhood and vowed that when I had my own house, my towels would never have a discernible fragrance. I have, up until this point, been able to maintain wonderfully clean and fresh towels, but last night I experienced a terrible shock when I emerged from the shower and grabbed my newly-washed towel from the bar. As soon as it touched my wet face, the acrid, sour odor blasted into my nostrils and nearly knocked me out. I frantically thought to myself "How could this be happening to me?" After all, I use bleach and baking soda in every load of towels that I wash, and I am the from-washer-immediately-to-dryer Nazi of the Clark home. The only explanation is the cursed humidity; the towels don't even get dry in the dryer. They hang in the bathroom to dry but don't have a chance in heck, hence we are stuck in the awful, disgusting cycle of towel stench. Save us!