I have a confession to make. I’m a money launderer. I didn’t set out to become a professional money launderer. It just sort of happened.
All I ever wanted was to be a humble laundress, maybe with a side hustle in stain removal and passive-aggressive sighing. (Well, to be perfectly honest, I didn’t really WANT to be a humble laundress. It came with the job titles of wife and mother.) But somewhere along the way — probably around the 3000th load of laundry — I realized I’d been laundering money for years. Literally. And unintentionally.

Unless I have some kind of criminal mastermind cat who’s secretly stashing cash in the laundry hamper (which, to be honest, I wouldn’t rule out), the true culprits are the members of my family.

There’s no thrill quite like reaching into a pair of jeans and finding a $5 bill. It’s like my own personal stimulus check. I didn’t earn it, but I also didn’t NOT earn it. I mean, I DID wash the pants with the forgotten $5 bill. At this point, I consider all pocket contents to be subject to the Finders Keepers Laundry Law. If it survives the wash, it’s mine. I’ve earned it in emotional labor alone.

I’ve retrieved:
• Crumpled fives
• Wadded singles
• Damp coupons to Subway from 2019
• A check (risky)
• $139.21 in change that tried to take down my washer

The coins that make it through the washer often end up in the dryer. Nothing says “mystery and chaos” like the unholy rattling of coins in the dryer. The moment I hear that metallic clang-bang-THUNK, I know someone’s been careless, and I know I’m now one quarter richer and one step closer to that Mediterranean cruise I’ve been saving up for. Nothing compares to the sound of coins in the dryer. I can be upstairs working on my blog when that miniature metallic stampede of clink-clank clatter from the laundry room serenades me like a percussion concert I never asked for.

Knowing I will never find the money in the soggy mass of clothes, I endure the racket until the end of the dryer cycle. Then, eagerly anticipating a payout, I pull out the dry clothes and search for my bounty, sometimes having to unwedge coins from the rubber seals where they’re hiding until the next load.

So, what happens to all this laundered money? I keep it. Obviously. Don’t come crying to me two days later holding a soggy wallet and whining, “Did you see a ten-dollar bill in the laundry?”

Nope. Never saw it. Not unless you’re prepared to reimburse me in clean socks, emotional bandwidth, and a full-page apology printed on dryer sheets. If you left it in your pants, and I took the time to wash, dry, and hang up said pants while you watched YouTube videos about conspiracy theories and snack reviews, that cash has been laundered, claimed, and reallocated to the Household Sanity Fund.
It’s called compensation. Or reparations. Or a laundering tax.

Some people launder their money through shell companies. Mine is run through the washing machine.

So if you hear jangling in the dryer, be advised it’s your loose change funding my next vacation. Justice has been served. And by “justice,” I mean quarters in a Mason jar, labeled “Tips I Paid Myself.”

Moral of the story? Check your pockets.

Because if you don’t, I will. And I’m not giving it back.