The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag Read Online Free Page A

decided to take a page out of Neil’s book and exercise my troubles away.
    Every pair of sweats I owned had at least two bleach stains on them, so I snagged a pair of my husband’s track pants, rolling them at the waist a few times so I wouldn’t trip over the cuffs. Donning crappy sneakers and an extra sweatshirt, gloves and Neil’s SEAL cap, I checked out my appearance then wished I’d resisted. I looked like the Stay-Puft marshmallow man. Hopefully Bill Murray wouldn’t show up and zap me into another dimension.
    Grabbing my keys and cell phone, I locked the house then hit the streets. Our neighborhood is built on a series of rolling hills and the bright sun sparkled off the snow-covered rooftops below. Midmorning on a weekday, no neighbors were out and about since I’m the only stay-at-home mom in the community. Just as well, since I didn’t particularly want any witnesses as I stumbled and ran.
    Jogging has never been my forte and I lasted maybe a minute before I decreased my unsteady lope to a brisk walk. My mother had always said I was one of those girls who couldn’t do two things at once, and bless her skeptical soul, she was right. Neither my irascible brother nor I could walk and chew gum, let alone jog and think. Since I didn’t want to think about Josh locking himself in the bathroom, Eric getting serviced by the Fran Dresher look-alike or my husband thinking our marriage needed an intervention, I picked up my pace again. My muscles were strong, built from years of vigorous cleaning and frenetic mothering, but I couldn’t seem to get my breathing under control.
    Stumble, step, wheeze, stumble step wheeze. I focused on inhaling through my nose, shoving oxygen down into my lungs by force of will. After another indeterminable amount of time—maybe forty seconds—I slowed again and gasped for breath. This was ridiculous, my husband could run a five minute mile and he was pushing forty! Granted, he had the benefit of BUD/s training, the hardcore physical conditioning required for a man to become a Navy SEAL, but Neil was a natural athlete and made his health a priority.
    I struggled for air, my gaze landed on the Kline mansion situated on top of the hill. Last I knew, Mr. Kline had put the house up for sale and was off being strange in some other neighborhood. He was a decent, if wacky man, but I wished I’d never met him. My life had spiraled out of control the moment I’d set foot in his house and I wanted it back.
    Determination burned in the pit of my stomach and I started off again. I was tired of my pity party, tired of being the laughingstock of the Hudson P.D. Tired of fretting about my family and friends, tired of jumping every time a door slammed or a car backfired. That sick S.O.B had already taken enough in his quest for vengeance, and he couldn’t hurt me anymore. I needed to get some control over my life. Neil had told me the men who made it all the way through the zealous training and into the SEAL teams shared one common trait, absolute resolve. They saw the Budweiser pin at the end and unflinchingly worked to attain it.
    Well I wanted to be fit and fabulous, or at least be able to run a freaking mile if I wanted. My cell phone rang and I praised the Lord and slowed to retrieve it from my pants pocket. Rome wasn’t built in a day after all.
    “Hello?” I rasped into the phone. Crap, one would think I’d been having a smoking contest with the Marlboro Man.
    “Maggie my love, where are you?” Leo sang into the phone. Ever upbeat and energetic, Leo is a housekeeper for my in-laws and my best bud, after Neil, for close to a decade. He’s worked for Laura for almost as long and is the only person I know who calls her a gorgon to her face. Why she hasn’t fired him is still a mystery, but I suspect it has something to do with his triple chocolate cake. Gorgons need to eat, too.
    “You’re in a good mood.” I observed.
    “Why talk when you can sing? Why walk when you can dance?”