I figured with the little thing of the washer being on the blink and the tiny laundry room with which I had to deal, I’d be stopping and updating often. No. I just kept at it – I think for the heck of it. I moved the dryer out by myself – there’s a certain trick to it that I only partially remember each time so there is a period of time when I am studying the wedged-in-the-door-dryer. But eventually it emerges. And now it is sitting in the kitchen.
I talked to the repairman and they are coming on Monday between 11 am and 1 pm. I will use the time until then to admire the fuzz-less floor of the laundry room and the cleaned and re-organized shelves. I told the repair guy right up front that I wanted him to move the dryer back in, mentioning that I was almost 63 so he would be determined to do it and not be shown up by an old woman. He is going to make a tight attachment for the dryer hose because it keeps popping off and in the small space, it is so hard to get back into place. That is undoubtedly why the floor is a fuzzy fur of lint.
I hope he can fix the washer – it is a Maytag and only a couple of years old. My first Maytag lasted about 27 years. Sigh. This new one came close to having a grand mal seizure last night. THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! Oh, it was a powerful thing – I thought perhaps it was transmorphing into a werewasher. It would not drain or spin, but I found out it would let more water in. I lunged for the control when that happened.
I suppose now I will search the internet for possible washer phenomena and if it’s bad, I will write Maytag a letter. You’re laughing, aren’t you? It will be a letter akin to the Egyptian tomb curses. I will feel better.
Der Bingle came early; I knew he was here because Shane was desperate to get the door open to come in so he could run around to the other door and meet him. His little whimpers were heart-wrenching: Oh, Oh, he’s here. He’s here. HE’S here. It’s Little Ann syndrome – she jumped chest high when Der Bingle returned from San Diego.