Okay, my dryer is on the fritz. Push the button and it will buzz like usual, but the buzz doesn't lead into the hum of it drying clothes like it has the past 16 or 17 years.
This dryer was a cohabitation present, given to me and the artist formerly known as Frau Lobster when we were technically living in sin (though we had engagement rings, a firm date for the bad mistake of marriage, and both our signatures on a mortgage). Which is to say it's not like I can't imagine it breaking down.
I've left messages for a couple of appliance repair joints, but nobody returns my call. My ex's husband is a handyman who might fix it for a fair price, but in the meantime, well...
I have been running out of plausible clothing to wear to work. And out of Pajamas for Mo, who now won't go to bed without some sort of change of outfit.
This wasn't supposed to be my weekend with the honyocks but we're splitting this weekend and next so I can judge beer, meaning I have less time than I otherwise would on that fourth weekend to get caught up on housework. There might be a polar bear rocket launch tomorrow, and there's definitely my taxes to do if I want to stand any chance of taking my offspring on vacation during spring break, so the dirty clothes problem needed resolution.
Well, my wet clothes, anyway, but as long as I was going to spend a fortune in quarters, I figured I'd wash the balance of my dirty clothes as well.
The solution? Spend my Friday night at the laundromat. I mean, if I'm going to spend $30 on a Friday Night out, and spend a lot of it chatting up a 24 year old, I ought to get more out of it than clean clothes and a conversation with a 24 year old who spends Friday Night at the laundromat with her mother.
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