Forever Yours

I look quite grim here, don't I?
Moving on...

I love washing machines, and sometimes

-sometimes-

I love the internet.

I spent most of our marriage going to laundromats, which are true marvels in their own right, but since our move, I've reveled in having our Very Own washing machine. I can wash clothes in the morning, at noon, at midnight, and at 3 o'clock in the morning if I so darn choose! Actually, the best part is that I don't even have to wash them. Instead, I pour a magic substance into a hole, toss dirty clothes in after it, press a button, and- presto!- with a chug and a whir and a bit of sight-unseen faith, my clothes are cleaned for me. So, yes, I love washing machines.

Here's why I love the internet.

Last night, I opened the washing machine lid to find a undrained washer full of water. I was very sad. Today, thanks to my impatience (I can't wait nine hours for John to return!), I asked the Internet how to dissemble my washing machine. It told me, so I did, and then I used needle-nose pliers to extricate a sock (MILDRED!) out of the drain pump. And then I put it back together again, with much better results than all the king's horses and all the king's men might have had in the same situation.

As I type, the washing machine is doing my work for me, scrubbing away with a chuggety-thump. This is a sorry excuse for a post, but I had to crow to someone, and the girls just don't understand like some weird mother out there in the nebulous land of internet might.

Oh! And I have big news. So exciting! Not as exciting as a baby in my belly*, but pretty fun nonetheless. (It has something to do with another magical machine, only this one preserves clean clothes for posterity with a click and a SNAP. Also, it's black. And shiny. And so expensive that it could have bought us, or, say, my mom-in-law, another car-home**.)


*p.s. It's not a baby.
**p.p.s. It's not a car-home.