“I ran these swimsuits through the dryer four times and they’re still wet,” I whined, on vacation, in the beautiful beachside resort to my MacGyver husband when he returned from his first round of golf.
I do try not to whine. I once went a whole week (almost) without complaining. But the fourth time the suits came out still wet? Fergedaboutit. I’m complaining. I almost called the front desk.
Husband gave me the look (the pity look: poor Laura, they maybe gave you a PhD by accident?) and addressed the dryer. (Just like he does when I lose something–he redoes exactly what I just did, as though I did it wrong, before he talks to me, looks at me, acknowledges that I spoke, or tries something new. Logical, yes, but exasperating as hell.)
Twenty minutes later he handed me my warm, dry suit. Shit. They are coming. Right now. To take away my advanced degree. I am hiding on a balcony at the beach.
How is this possible? Especially for a woman who once wore the nickname “Laundry Lady” for more than a year? (Kate’s idea. She was about three. She labeled us all: She was the cute one. Lea was the smart one. Daddy was the funny one. And then she was stumped about what to call her mother so she announced, “…and Mommy is the Laundry Lady!” I shouldn’t complain (see above) since this came from the same kid who tried to join a football discussion by announcing that she liked the Elephants.) Oh, yeah, sorry, how is this possible–you’re dying to know.
My defense: The washer/dryer combo thing is stacked. The washer buttons are on the left. The dryer buttons are on the right. I put the suits first in the top (logical) to rinse them and then in the bottom to dry them. Thank God I didn’t throw in detergent, as the top is the dryer. (There are NO arrows to help with this, but, yes, dear husband, you are right once again: the top does look more like a dryer than a washer.)