Alissa's Axis of Evil.

Three months into my post as Intrepid Intern, many of you have sought my budding expert political opinion.
"Alissa," you ask, "in your opinion, what should the candidates be doing about the Transcendent Threat Of Our Time?"
Ah yes, the Transcendent Threat Of Out Time (or TOOT, as it were). Every candidate is eager to show how they could best protect us from it, despite widely varying definitions for what, precisely, is threatening us.
For McCain, Islamo-Fascism is enemy #1 (extra points when pronounced with a Texan twang, or if you're Dr. Ferreiro). For Obama, Pessimism and Despair battle daily against the agents of Hope and Audacity.

In response, I've decided to name my own Axis of Evil, the Unholy Trinity, the almighty TOOT.
Today, I announce to you the true Agents of Evil: the stovetop, the ironing board, and—the newest member of my enemy list—the washing machine.

I have already recounted to you, O upstanding citizens, the evil of the stove (see July 10th entry), and the treacherous vengeance of the iron (see September 14th). Yesterday, as if to prove that the universe is indeed conspiring against me, the washing machine joined their ranks.

An 11 year veteran of washing my own clothes, I have never seen such an ungodly disaster. Two of my favorite clothing items—white pants and a cream colored sweater—were both in need of washing (ironically, my sweater because of tomato stains from cooking, thank you very much). Still saturated with Seattle environmental sensibilities, I felt guilty about running such a small load, and began to scout about for other white clothing that might need a quick cleaning.

My great new white shirt with brown embroidery (see September 13th) hadn't been washed yet, so I decided to throw it in. Now, I knew that there was a chance the brown thread might bleed a little bit, so I made sure to use cold water and turned the shirt inside out. Oh yes, I have washing machine skills and savvy, thank you.

I turned on the washing machine and went out for a fantastic evening spent with my SPU friends Brittalisa and Emily, showing them my favorite outdoor café and hearing about their semester in the Middle East thus far. We spent an hour outside, drinking tea and yogurt, and enjoying the sound of Ramadan streamers zigzagged across the alleyway as they fluttered in the wind.

I came home around 11:30, and went to hang my clean clothes on the line. I popped open the door to the washing machine, suddenly confused. Who put their clothes in after mine? Instead of my white sweater and pants and such, I found a pink shirt and some other unidentifiable articles. One of my roommates must have moved my clothes out already to put hers in. I checked the line—it was empty. No clothes were drying in the living room. Where were my clothes?

I checked the washing machine again, still very confused. I began pulling out these peachy, pink, and salmon colored shirts, still not realizing what I held in my hand. Suddenly spotting a tag that I recognized as my own, I looked in sudden horror at the textile massacre before me. My white sweater: rose pink. My white pants: peach. No, no, God, it can't be! I started rummaging around, looking for the offending culprit.
Finally I realized: the brown thread of my beloved American-Student-Abroad-Feigning-African-Roots shirt, the one my roommate had mocked only days before.

I angrily consigned the shirt to the hell of my wastebasket, and set about bleaching my pants in futile desperation.

If it's any consolation, I know that even if I am doomed to a complete bachelor's lifestyle for the foreseeable future, I'll at least have scrambled eggs, snickers, and my new pink sweater to comfort me. But, lest anyone think I'm suggesting to "cut and run": I will pursue you to the gates of hell and the caves of Afghanistan, O Axis of Domestic Evil. Washing Machine: You're on notice.

But then, while walking to work this morning, I watched a man go out of his way to help walk an old lady across several busy lanes of traffic. If my confidence in household appliances has taken a plunge as of late, my confidence in humanity and the generosity of Egyptian culture makes up for it.