New Washers & Rooms7:15 AM
It is common knowledge -- and don't deny it -- that washers are some of the snootiest pieces of machinery. You know the washboard, lye soap and river water became unfashionable long, long time ago -- you know it, and you rub it in our faces. Unlike the usually compliant dryer, which, besides constantly flashing the CHECK LINT SCREEN, does no arrogant theatrics, the washer is a complete drama queen. It feels confident that it is indispensable (dryers are a luxury, at least in the summer) and it feels best when making a racket to let us know that we're stuck with it. Laundry is bad all by itself, but paired with a sassy washer, it can be misery.
You are no exception, Evil Washer VII. Without a doubt you have caused me more trouble than any other appliance in this house -- iron excepted, since the wretch turns off in the middle of ironing. And irons leave a bad taste generally. But you -- you have been looked at, fixed, complained at, kicked and forewarned. Here is my list of grievances and my declaration of independence: you leave standing water in the pile of darks; your spin cycle sounds like Air Force One on take off; and you do not clean clothes properly.
Now you're sitting in a junk heap, I hope, though I didn't care to question the appliance guys when they removed you. I made a point to laugh at a ridiculous joke while you left our house. This is all I have to say to you, Washer: R.I.P.
That does not mean "rest in peace." It means "rot in purgatory," so that I may have the pleasure of you being in semi-torment without the responsibility of feeling guilt for your utter doom.
It gives me great satisfaction to let you know that you have been replaced de facto with no sympathy or regret.
I relish the thought of the new washer standing in your spot, taking over your grimy corner.
I delight in knowing that the memory of you will quickly die and your memory efface.
Grateful to God for His providence and blessings,
In its place, we got the hottest washer on the block -- or the appliance store, which isn't on our block at all. I don't know where it is, to be honest: I'm like a blind man when it comes to geography, especially local. I get lost driving in town. But why would I need to know where my appliance store is? Besides, the tyranny of the former didn't lend any immediate daydreams about future washers.
It sure is a beauty, though, in a techie way. If Dr. Spock -- wait, is he the baby guy? I mean the science fiction Spock. Live long and prosper. Which is a suitable wish for our technologically advanced washer. It turns laundry into a game -- flashing lights, melodic beeping, a clear window in the door to lure unsuspecting cats to their psychological doom. And at the end of the game, it plays a little arcade ditty.
In other news, I find it very disturbing that a new washer should make the headlines in my life. Let me offset my painful strangeness with something even more strange.
Left them all, left all my clothes and packed a Kit doll, couple of pictures and three books: The Help, One Thousand Gifts and Choosing Gratitude. Well, I did take my cupcake pajamas. And my pink robe. And my purple socks with the holes in them. And I obviously have my laptop. And I couldn't leave behind my Scottie dog pillow or handmade quilt.
There comes a time in every girl's life where it's time to move on -- especially when the youngest sister kicks her out of her own room. As soon as Caroline crawled out of her bed, Mom announced that new sleeping arrangements were in order. I have left the room of my foresisters. I am now alone in the guest room.
Which isn't so bad. I can toss and turn all I want. I don't have to worry about hitting my head on the ceiling, a very present danger with top bunks. I can hang paper snowflakes from the ceiling and decorate some twigs in a jar with a popcorn strand and pretend I'm creative.
|Pottery Barn. You thought it was Pottery Barn, didn't you?|
My psychologist is in the process of figuring out what childhood trauma caused this inordinate fear. Stay tuned.
In any case, I don't get to wake up on Sunday morning and exchange dreams.
I don't get to stay up till midnight talking about boys and friends and God.
If I'm sobbing my heart out, nobody will hear me except the teary-eyed vintage teddy bear whose nose is almost torn off. Which begs the question. Why do toymakers think that children will enjoy crying, frowny toys? They bring on their own fate: my crybaby doll looks like a ninety-year-old and has most of its fingers gnawed off, courtesy of my younger self.
Though perhaps I may not be as alone as I would wish. It's not really my room at all -- it's still the guest room if any guests show up, in which case I'll sleep on the floor of the Old Room. I'm constantly finding jealous little sisters on my bed, hiding in my sanctuary. In fact, the very first morning of my very first night sleeping alone, the whole gang showed up at 10:47 to pounce me awake.
They told me their dreams.
|Bethany + Light - Inept Photography Student = Unspeakably Awesome Photos|