Recommended wine for today’s entry: As the weather is finally getting cool, I’m going to recommend a glass of Peppoli Chianti and a cozy warm fire for tonight. Here’s a funny coincidence: this wine was the next of my in-laws’ recommendations from their trip to Italy that I was planning to use. And when I saw my sister this weekend, she brought me my birthday present that she’d had festively wrapped at her house since HER trip to Italy last summer. And it was the same wine! Research describes it as “ripe blackberry and raspberry, with pronounced floral and mineral notes…medium- to full-bodied.” Ahh…light the fire, turn on One Tree Hill and pour me a big one!
“You’ll miss me when I’m dead.”
That’s what my washing machine used to say to me when I kicked it to make it restart or I slammed the top real hard to get the spin cycle revved up.
And it was right. I really miss it.
If only I’d recognized the symptoms, it might not have happened. At least not the way that it did.
It tried to hold out for the holidays, but, as luck may have it, it chose to bid me adieu about 30 minutes before guests were expected over the Thanksgiving weekend. One minute there was a full load churning away, then POOF! With a decisive thud and a plume of acrid smoke, it was gone.
“What’s on fire?” My husband yelled from three rooms away as soon as he turned off the shower.
“Check the oven!” my daughter screamed from upstairs. “You’re burning something AGAIN!”
Always calm in those moments just before guests arrive and excellent in an emergency, I ran shrieking and half-naked into the laundry room to unplug the machine before there was a heinous explosion. “SHUT UP EVERYONE!! I DIDN’T BURN ANYTHING!! IT WAS THE WASHING MACHINE AND THIS TIME THE BASTARD ISN’T COMING BACK!”
So that is why when people got to our house I had wet hair and a pesky twitch in my left eye.
I calmed myself down with a little trick that I have involving a little visualization, a little meditation and a lot of chardonnay.
But as each new person came into the house, they sniffed and said, “Something’s on fire.” Well, I was sweet at first. “Oh, no,” I explained patiently. “The washer just burned up. But it’s out now. Here, drink this and it won’t smell as much.”
After the fourth person said it though, I was getting testy. So when someone said, “Ewww. Your house stinks of smoke,” I gritted my teeth, poured them some wine and said, quietly so that I didn’t freak anyone out, “Here. How about a nice glass of SHUT THE HELL UP?”
Anyway, we made it through the evening without anyone getting hurt. The next day, my husband went out to hunt and gather and bring me back a new washer. That should be easy, because at least 20 of the Thanksgiving Day circulars had pictures of gleaming new washers and dryers. I mean, the hard part would be deciding what I wanted: front or top load, cherry red or stainless steel, … oh, my, it reminded me of the old pre-Christmas days with the Sears catalog.
Off he went, armed with our choices and the accompanying ads. First stop, bait-and-switch. Yes, they had them, but not in stock, and unless we each had 28-35 pairs of underwear in our drawers, we were gonna need something a little sooner. Second stop, same scenerio. Third stop, basically he said, “What do you have IN STOCK?” And so now we’re getting a washer and dryer on Friday. I think they are made in Slovakia, which, as the knowledgable and helpful salesman explained to my husband, is apparently known for their excellent electronics.
At that point, we’ll have been without a washer for about a week. There is already, um, not counting my college daughter’s laundry, which she hauled all the way home and all the way back, still dirty, umm…probably 6 loads already accumulated. I’m figuring I’ll have close to 20 loads waiting for the new guy.
For now, I’m going to collect all the wet towels off the floors and hang them up. My daughter will actually have to use the same towel twice — not sure how that’ll go over. Then I have to go buy underwear, because I’m already down to just granny panties. They’re fine as long as I don’t need to bend over. But if you wear granny panties and low-rise jeans, bending over can lead to an ugly and humiliating sight. Once my phone rang while I was getting my hair cut and I leaned over to get it from my purse that was on the floor. My hairdresser, Susan, actually gasped out loud. We laugh about it now but it was mortifying at the time.
Ironically, I almost bought some undies the other day, but the ones I picked up turned out to be a thong. Well, I’m not quite hip enough for that action. In fact, I felt my face turn blood red when I saw what I’d picked up and I actually did the whole frantic head-swivel thing to make sure no one saw me, then I flung it down with a disgusted look on my face. Good Lord, you would’ve thought I’d gotten caught by my minister in the sex toy shop.
So I’m understandably nervous about my underwear shopping. But you know what they say, when the going gets tough, the tough get going.
RIP my little Whirlpool friend. It’s been a nice 12 years.