Left to right: Monteau, Marshalls; Violet & Claire, Marshalls; IZ Byer, Kohl's; Fifth Sun, Target; Jennifer Lopez Collection, Kohl's; ELLE, Kohl's
I like to think of myself as an equal opportunity clothes enthusiast, but there's something special about a top. Even that short-lived reboot of "The Odd Couple" recognized it. I still remember Oscar's agent complimenting Teri Hatcher on her blouse, then saying something like, "Women love their tops." And we do! Especially in today's Zoom corporate culture when it's the only part of our outfits that people see. It's certainly changed the way I look at my closet. I used to build an ensemble around a skirt, a pair of shoes, or even a particularly rad pair of tights. Now the top has to stand on its own, which means that I reach for the splashier ones more often. I always wear them with a denim mini and my fuzzy slippers. I've come to think of it as my uniform, and I really like it.
Still, wearing more clothes (clothes, that is, other than pjs) means washing more clothes. Just as hanging at home means investigating domestic annoyances I'd usually ignore. For example, for the last year or so, I've been noticing small, greenish-brown, plasticky pieces adhering to my freshly washed laundry. They weren't stains because I was able to pick them off. And for that I was grateful. Nevertheless, the whole thing bothered me. I mean, my clothes are like my kids. And you don't want to throw the baby out with the bath -- or, in this case, laundry -- water. Sometimes I'd toss everything back into the washer. Yet at the end of each cycle, I again spied the offending debris. I'd indulge in an eye roll but then move on. Until recently. After finding one remnant too many, I couldn't deny that I should get to the bottom of it. My friend the Internet would have the answer, even if it was one I didn't like.
It turns out that my mystery marks are what is known as "scrud." A combination of "soap" and "crud," the word scrud refers to a mixture of detergent residue and mildew that brews beneath your washing machine's drum. When you run a cycle, the scrud sheet or roll or whatever breaks off into little pieces and lands on your clothes. I was flummoxed. The washer was supposed to get my clothes cleaner, not spray them with mold's answer to dandruff. So, I went on Amazon, determined to find a scrud-buster. I came up with a product called Affresh and ordered it. All I had to do was drop a tablet in the washer and turn it on hot for the longest cycle. The package said that I "might see residue" afterwards, but when I opened the lid, I was unprepared for the Pollack painting of strange, spinach-like strips clinging to the white spinny thing. I was mesmerized yet disgusted, disgusted yet mesmerized. Per the package (that dubious guide), if I had a particularly filthy and/or smelly machine, then I could run as many as four cycles. I ignored that and used up the whole box, all the while hearing TLC's "Scrubs" on a loop in my head:
"No, I don't want no scrub
A scrub is a guy that can't get no love from me
Hangin' out the passenger side
Of his best friend's ride (oh)
Trying to holla at me."
As TLC says, "a scrub is a guy who thinks he's fine." Much like scrud, which tries to pass itself off as mere recycled soap. Um, yeah, recycled soap scum -- and dirt. Is pond scum copacetic because swans used to glide across its once pristine surface? I think not.
Anyway, I've (almost) made peace with the fact that scrud will be my unwelcome houseguest for awhile. It'll dissipate after many cycles, the towels and other workaday items thankfully sanitized by the dryer's vigilante lint trap. In the meantime, I'm resigned to picking the pieces off my drip dry dress clothes. To that end, here's a happy band of ROYGBIV blouses (even if the blue one is clearly a tee shirt). I'm proud to report that all are scrud free.
If only I could say the same about my scalp and dandruff.