I’m concerned about my washer. It’s one of those fancy front loaders. (“This bad boy has the rpm of a transatlantic jet turbine!” the young clerk gushed. With assurances of reduced power bills and jeans, that when washed in this puppy, would make my butt look smaller, we bought the set.)
The first hint of its terrible power came the day of delivery. “You don’t want to put this on a second floor,” the delivery guy said darkly.
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” I asked, thinking of my new magical jeans.
His partner nudged him, muttered something in his ear and they scurried off, the tow dolly clunking merrily down the walk.
Life was fine while my new washer sat on a slab foundation house. A little loud but tolerable. But I gotta tell you, that small butt promise was pure hype.
“I need risers,” I told Jay one day. I saw some in an Whirlpool ad. The woman barely had to bend over to unload the washer. And her butt definitely looked smallish.
“How much?” he replied.
I told him.
He ran a hand through his hair, leaving one side a little prickly. Time for a haircut, I mused.
He muttered something about the budget and knew I’d better leave that topic alone.
Time passed and we do what most normal people don’t do: we moved into another house. But Providence had not forgotten me and Jay announced triumphantly one day that he had snagged a set of risers for a song at Lowes.
“I hope you don’t mind that the colors don’t match,” Jay said. Are you kidding? Mismatched colors…herniated discs….mismatched colors….chiropractor bills….I am SO over matching colors.
“Matching colors are overrated” I said. Jay installed the risers.
And then the fun began the next day on the maiden voyage of my new back friendly washer.
I was sipping a cup of Don Pablo in the living room when I thought I heard a Castanet marching band coming down the road. I set down the java and look around. Good grief, no more sausage for you, honey!
Nope that wasn’t it. I peered out the window but the coast was clear.
The tempo picked up and then I saw it: Jay’s oil painting, “Elvis the Cow” was clicking against the wall furiously in tempo to the spin of the washer. And it looked like the massive ore boat painting was about to set sail.
I bolted to the washer closet; it was convulsing madly as though in the midst of a demonic exorcism. I thought about shouting, “In the name of GeeeeeeeSUS!” but as soon as I drew in a big breath, I realized I was just in time to catch the box of my Costco detergent before it danced off the washer. The pile of Nasties That Must Be Presoaked that I kept in their own special little tub were already cast about the room.
And then, as suddenly as the madness began….it halted and silence filled my ears. I regarded my kitchen. A crusty sock hung from my apron hook and another landed in the butter dish on the island. (If I just scrape off the top layer, no one will ever know….)
In the living room, The EB Greene was listing to starboard and Elvis the cow was in a different pasture.
Cute young mommies– the kind who can proudly wear yoga pants practice and use trendy jogging strollers with cup holders for their skinny caramel macchiatos- extra foam and chocolate sprinkles…yeah, those are the ones….practice Feng Shui.
I, on the other hand…flung shui.
Oh, who cares? Even little butts look gross in yoga pants.
I’m still not sure what to do about that washer. But I’m thinking that if I can get some hip marketing firm to help spread the word about the mystical power of Flung Shui, I could become a very, very wealthy woman. Why, my crackerjack graphic artist, Dave Aldrich, has already proposed a look for the book cover:
I think it’s destined to be a bestseller. Especially if they tell woman it’ll make their butt look smaller.