Washing Machine Mayhem

This lovely blue Sears van has been in my drive-way, not one, not two, but three times in the last month. And this van will appear once again because I have come to the only possible explanation possible, my washing machine is demon possessed.

A few months ago I stuffed the machine packed full in the same manner I always do: jeans half-inside-out, socks still shoved in pant legs, red t-shirts, dryer sheets still in the bottom of the basket, molding towels. I whipped the dial to heavy load, deep clean, fabric softener diluted and slammed down the lid.

The next day, when I couldn't find the jeans I wanted to wear, I remembered to put the clothes in the dryer. To my dismay, they were still soaking wet. This certainly won't do for a girl who is such a perfectionist when it comes to laundry, so I immediately phoned Sears Repair and they sent out a repair tech. Since my husband has a more flexible schedule than I do, he was happy to have his morning coffee with John and the spin cycle.

John couldn't find a thing wrong, except the too strong coffee my husband made, and was on about his day. I was thrilled to come home and again find my machine grinning at me, its button eyes glaring, mouth open wide "The better to eat you with my dear." Of course, as you might have guessed, next couple of loads...soaking wet skibbies.

For the next repair visit, I scheduled it for a Saturday knowing that two men together just aren't capable of understanding such a domestic discrepancy. Apparently, John is off on Saturdays and his partner Groucho Max was thrilled to witness the spin cycle with this desperate housewife. Again, I didn't know what to tell Max when, as he and I stood there, the machine was purring like a kitten in front of a warm fire. He convinced me my shameful over-loading was the problem and I needed to determine not how many jeans to wash, but what size jeans my washer could withstand. After some tricky mathematical repair-man manipulation, I had now increased my washing time from a simple thoughtless act to a complicated "fill the machine only to this dot line, watch the top item for five seconds, if it's still a floating--you're a overloading."

After this tricky technique failed to work and an all-out screech became evident during the spin cycle I was convinced my machine had seen its last days. I once again called Sears repair, put the phone inside the washing machine to prove my point, "See can you hear that???" and promised the customer service professional that when the man came back out it would be broken.

Today, right after John handed me the bobby pin stuck in the bottom of the machine to stop the screeching, the machine again reared its innocent act in front of the repair personnel. He had me load it up and the towels came out drier than a worm on the sidewalk. He walked out, shaking his head and I could practically hear his inner-dialogue calling me a cooke.

After dialing 888-4-REPAIR for the 4th time, the customer service agent sarcastically asked me, "Let me just get this straight. So what you're saying is when the repair man is there the machine works and when he leaves its doesn't work. Is that what you're saying?" "Well, ummm, yes that's right," I casually agreed. "Well, the best I can do is have him come out again on Wednesday."

Does anyone have the number to a washing machine exorcist???? I'm beginning to think I need a exorcist with a hurse, not a repair man in a blue van.

You've Created A Monster

My wonderful husband bought me a laptop for my 30th birthday last November. I was so excited, until I realized without understanding how to use it and never taking the time to figure the thing out, it sat in the box until this weekend.

Finally, a friend came over and hooked up a wireless router, showed me how to use all the features of this mini-midnight lover and I am up and running as hubby lies beside me sleeping. Is he annoyed with me yet??? He hasn't said so, but as I type this blog, he has turned over and fallen asleep. He is not yet snoring, but I anticipate that soon to come. I mean seriously, I can lay in bed, surf the net and catch up on all my reading via the internet.

It really is a beautiful thing.

Just Right

The Napkins: hand-shuffled together, perfectly placed in the holder with the folded side up, centered vertically and horizontally on the island. Just Right.
My Socks: Matching pairs, with their mate snuggled close together, placed perfectly in the drawer like sardines. Just Right. (Unlike my unfolded underwear draw, which allows bras, special undies and once-a-month pairs to intermingle like guests at a cocktail party).
Sleeping: My pillows placed one on top of the other, open-pillow case end towards the wall, fitted sheet pulled tight, hair in a bun, on stomach, one leg bent at a 90 degree angle, one leg and arm straight, other arm under pillow which allows for a tad of extra head elevation and therefore better breathing (only through the nose), and a Honey will you please fluff the blanket, turn the fan on medium, and close the door only 3/4 of the way??? In that order...Thanks honey! Just Right.
Milk: Only in a plastic cup...Never, Never in a glass, sometimes with ice depending on temperature of the fridge, which is determined by amount of groceries available within. Just Right.
Large French Vanilla Coffee with Cream and Sugar at 7:10 am from Dunkin' Dountus on the corner of Larkin and Jefferson made by Rita: Just Right.

Thrashing Temper Tantrum

Tonight I had the pleasure of watching my two-year old daughter as she carried on and thrashed her body all over the kitchen floor in an all-out,-academy-award-performance-temper-tantrum. This beautiful child turned from lovely to Lucifer in all of about two seconds. This was not my daughter, the one whom I often wondered if she was a deaf-mute, the one people always asked me "does she ever make a sound," the one I have scheduled for a speech evaluation...how could this be that same precious silent child?

The tighter I tried to hold her...the louder the screams. The more I tried to reason with her...the greater the flailing. The more I gave her the rod...the more ferocious she became. And softly, slowly I kept repeating and rocking "You have peace...you have peace...you have peace..."

And then all of a sudden, for just a nano-second, I saw myself in her and the Lord in me. As her screams became a distance noise, my rebellion in the sight of the Lord was magnified in my own eyes. Her rebellion now didn't look so bad. After all she's two years old--at least she has an excuse.

While still holding her, I quickly threw away the excuses that I wanted to use as fig leaves to cover my exposed skin. Thoughts, statements, attitudes swam before my eyes as a racing river carries the unattached leaves floating on the surface. In this moment of nakedness, I could not deny the accusations of these swarming sentiments. I could only embrace them, cast them into the river, and grab on to the solid rock.

As my daughter's cries began to subside, so did my pride. He had been holding me tight the whole time...I just couldn't feel his arms until I sat still.

Rough Night

My intention was to send out a post about my favorite books of all time and some great reads; however, I am being pulled in several different directions right now....so you will have to wait patiently....

And any prayers you would like to send this way would be greatly appreciated!

Fisty Foot Mouth

I would say I have a pretty strong personality and a pretty big mouth. When I was in the 6th grade someone challenged me to see if I could fit my whole fist in my mouth and I could. I used this trick quite often to impress my family and friends. Surprisingly many couldn't do it. I haven't attempted the fist in years, but my foot has found a home inside many times since then.

Because of my outgoing and easily excitable personality, I am definitely one of those people who: dart across the room to greet an old acquaintance, begin in-depth lengthy discussions with the other customers standing in the check-out line, and can pretty much find out all the vital statistics of why every person is also sitting in the waiting room, including height and weight.

For the most part, I am confident. Usually. For the most part I can handle myself well in a variety of contexts and situations. Usually. For the most part I am mature. Usually. Truth be told, much of this I owe to my husband. Over the years he has taught me, by simple gestures such as a slight elbow to the arm meaning "stop while you're ahead" and a slight head shake with down cast disapproving eyes which warn, "might think twice before you continue your verbal brigade." Unfortunately sometimes he is no where to be found and and I am left out on my own without the friendly reminder to look both ways before I cross the street. Sometimes I jump too far out and get hit by a truck.

Like yesterday, at a neighbors party when I asked another neighbor if I could still come to her baby shower even though I forgot to RSVP. She blankly looked at me and said, "I don't know a thing about it. I didn't even know I was having a shower." Resisting the temptation to ask, "Who were you thinking was going to buy you all those items you registered for?" I simply apologized, excused myself, and made my way to the cheese ball.

Or that time I showed up to a friends candle-party a day early. As soon as she opened the door, before she could even speak, I asked her sarcastically, "What are you thinking still wearing your pajamas?" After realizing skimming the invitation at 3am can sometimes changes the words "Saturday" to "Sunday." I bowed out, tail between my legs, put the car in reverse and plowed down the mailbox. Needless to say, I never did find out the actual day of the party.

Or how about that time I was sitting around chatting with a bunch of friends about the church choir and continued going on and on about the woman in the choir who is always jumping up and down and looks like she has the joy of the Lord not only in her heart, but in her hands, feet, hair and every other body part as well. It wasn't until the very strange silent hush finally spoke to me louder than my words that I realized something was amiss. My friend leaned over and said, "That's her mom," while motioning to the new girl sitting across from me at the table. I've looked, but I haven't seen her at church since.

And there was even the one while I was a student teacher. I told my cooperating teacher the sub who was there the day before was on crack, and I quote "like seriously worse than some of the kids, I swear she was higher than a kite." Only to find out later that that same sub just so happened to be her best friends sister--who conveniently also works in the building.

What can I say, I'm working on it. Thankfully my husband hasn't given up on me. I'm sure we'll be 90 years old, sitting at the table, when I'll feel that refreshing nudge ever so slightly attempting to rescue me from myself. Maybe one of these days I'll get it. Maybe.

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Hey, and I just tried to fit my fist in my mouth again...Can't do it for anything and I actually think I just broke a tooth. Hopefully, my foot hasn't gotten bigger, but rather my mouth has shrunk.

Tell the truth...How many of you just read that and actually tried it...Come on fess up.

Sleepless Dreams

11:00pm By the time my husband and I arrived home from a friend's party last night, the tension was so thick between us, I didn't have the wearwithall to attempt to machete through it, so I simply put the kids in bed and retired myself for the evening. He, apparently, found it necessary to stay up late extricating the new computer software which can now merge all our bills and pay them online. By the time I shut Enough About You: Adventures in Autobiography by David Shields, my eyes were so heavy with sleep, I hardly noticed the office light still blazing on into the darkness beneath my door.

4:30am I rolled over to find myself starkly alone. His half, still cold with the night air, jarred me awake right in the mist of a dream in which my husband admitted to kissing another woman. This too-real dream, along with my empty bed, refused to allow me to tenderly drift back off into a peaceful sleep. After lying there for nearly an hour, I sat up and saw the light still penetrating through the crack of my closed bedroom door.

5:30am I shuffled down the stairs carefully feeling my way down the dark hallway. I walked into the office squinting at the man I've known for the last 10 years, sat down on the chair next to him at the desk, looked him square in the eye and asked, "I want to ask you something, do you promise to tell me the truth?" Avoiding the temptation to laugh, he looked past my frumpy pink p.j.'s, my frizzy hair atop my head in a bun, and ignoring my morning breath--he somehow must have picked up on the estranged way I spoke and the panic in my eyes. He looked directly at me and said "OK, I promise."

7:00am I tried to roll over but found his arms still wrapped tight around my body. I was uncomfortable and wanted to move over to my side of the bed, but instead I laid there quietly and reminded myself how blessed I was because I was the one being held...