Comforter Cremation by Julianna Rowe

I do believe it is time to write about the Great Comforter Cremation.

Last fall, I lovingly folded my beautiful pale pink comforter and stuffed it into one of those giant storage bins for the winter. Well... "stuffed" is the proper word. It took a bit of wrestling to get it in there. Looking back, one of those vacuum bags that suck all the air out might have been a wiser choice. Oh wait... there won't be a next time. Spring arrived, and I finally decided it was time to bring Queenie back out. First came the tugging, pulling, and wrestling match to remove her from the storage bin. Then I performed the official "sniff test." She passed... sort of. I decided a good washing wouldn't hurt.

Mind you, I live in a tiny apartment with a washer that would probably struggle to wash a decent-sized bath towel, so I hauled Queenie down the hall to the community laundry room.

I proudly followed the directions, poured in the detergent, and began feeding my queen-sized comforter into the washer.  Halfway through the stuffing process, I suddenly realized something. This washer wasn't built for heavy loads. It was too late. The soap was already in, and half the comforter had disappeared into the machine. Having already mastered the art of stuffing and unstuffing Queenie once, I figured I might as well finish the job.

After depositing enough quarters to make the washing machine think it had won the lottery, I wandered back to my apartment. I even washed the poor thing twice. When it was finally finished, I returned to retrieve my freshly cleaned comforter.There was just one problem. It wouldn't come out. It had somehow molded itself to the inside of the washer as though it had taken out a lease. I pulled. I tugged. I braced my feet. I briefly considered calling the fire department.

Eventually, after what felt like an Olympic weightlifting event, I freed Queenie from her steel prison.

Now came Round Two. Stuffing her into the dryer. More quarters. More waiting. More walking back and forth down the hall. An hour later I opened the dryer and immediately noticed two things. First... she was still damp in spots. Second... she smelled oddly familiar. Not mildew. Not laundry soap. A campfire. Without the marshmallows. Naturally, I began searching for scorch marks. Nothing. But then I squeezed one corner. Crunch. Another corner.,Crunch.

The stuffing inside had transformed into something resembling Rice Krispies that had been struck by lightning. Every edge crackled with the sad sound of polyester destruction. Refusing to admit defeat, I launched Operation Comforter Rescue. I pulled apart every crunchy section I could find. I beat on it.I fluffed it. I may or may not have considered introducing it to a meat tenderizer.

Finally, I sent Queenie home with a friend who owned a proper large-capacity washer and dryer, hoping professional equipment might perform a miracle. She returned. Cleaner. Softer. And still suffering from advanced Comforter Cremation around the edges. Ladies and gentlemen... She was gone. Just like the mice that once tried to inhabit my tiny apartment... She was dead. I have accepted her fate. Dead is dead. Personally, I intend to remain on the opposite side of both cremation and being under the dirt for as long as possible. As for Queenie...May she rest in polyester peace.

The Happy News Lady