Our washer is broken. Again. Every time I turn around, that piece of arse is at it again. This time it ended with an actual explosion. Delightful. I was cleaning the bejeezus out of the house when I heard the BOOM! from the utility closet. I quickly did the math in my head and sure enough we're due for our 5-month washer/dryer calamity. Last time, the wee bastard flooded the kitchen. That's right. I said kitchen. Our righteous apartments (we moved from a one to a two-bedroom in April in the same complex) strategically place these Eurotrash "high efficiency" front-loading abominations in the least convenient locations possible. So in that case, it was next to the stove in the kitchen. Naturally. I mean, where else would you expect to keep your washer/dryer, Fancypants von Trousersander? So yeah, lame. We're out of a washer until our repairman brings us a new motherboard, as ours was a casualty of the shiny grin grin Saturday morning pyrotechnic display.
Because of this interruption of all things right and good, I gathered up the clothing and took it to the nearest laundromat. I'm not opposed to laundromats so long as they're clean and quiet. As luck would have it there is one just like that only a few blocks up and over. I guess that's part of the beauty of living in a large town, small city. For those of you who've never been to Portland, one important fact to note is that pretty much everyone in this town stands out in one way or another. I was on my way home from work a couple months ago and saw a guy walking a chicken on a leash. The chicken's collar was purple and sparkly, and to me, well, sparkles just don't belong on a chicken. The purple was a nice shade, though. Anyway, a trip to the laundromat here is a like sitting in the lobby of a Cirque de Soleil show that hasn't quite found its niche yet. In the hour and a half it took for me to cycle through my wash, I saw a woman with a tattoo that curled around her neck and read C-U-N-T in big bright red old English calligraphy, a fella whose skirt was hand-sewn from plastic and jeans, and a young lady who practiced her percussion skills on the bank of extra large washers (very talented, I might add).
While all this is swirling around me, I managed to write out pretty much all of the storyboards for our wedding DVD extras, the mailing list for it, and the supplies and fees we'll need to carry out this shindig. Maybe in the overall scheme it's not such a bad thing the washer decided to dump out on us for a couple weeks. My productivity and hometown entertainment depended on it, apparently.
3 comments:
Domesticated, fashionista chickens. Home made attire. Thats it. I'm moving to portland! All I see around here are effing squirrels and A&F walking mannequins!
Shame about the washer. If this happens every five months, maybe the powers that be should get a new brand?
I'll trade your washer for our broken tv. We can't turn it off or it won't turn back on. or it will. It depends on its mood. So we just leave it on. Yes indeed, turns out I am a fair-weather environmentalist.
I'll take a chicken on a leash (at least he's a pet and probably won't be eaten) over the white trash freak show here in Howell.
Sorry to hear about the washer. When the fridge goes out and you've been away for a week and your house is 85 degrees, let me know which one was worse. Water everywhere sucks, but slimy mystery-food is an adventure too.
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