So, grab your love and gathering in to read Kayla's Valentine gift to you-- a romantic tale of a dryer. . .
A dryer of. . . love. . .
Stay with me.
I have always longed for a washer and dryer. My heart ached like a mother aches for a child. When searching for an apartment I insisted we find one with hook-ups to prepare for the day when I could cradle warm, dry, sweet-smelling. . . clothes (and babies) in my arms while my feet were planted in on the floor of my own abode. We were blessed with a place with such a hook-up. However, poverty is patience-inducing and we were forced to wait for the day when we would go through the labor. . . of carrying for nine. . . minutes a washer up the stairs to our apartment (Thanks for the help, Dad!).
Because the government is kind enough to return some the funds we have chucked at it all year, Paul and I decide to use some of that money to buy these washer and dryer things we had heard so much about. Thursday night Paul received a text message from his best friend asking if we needed one or both of those remarkable machines. They happened to be upgrading and found themselves with two sets and needed someone to take the older set of their hands free of charge. He happened to know of a little wife who desperately wanted a washer and dryer, and free is a great price.
Friday night my father and husband drove down the street to retrieve my Valentine's Day gift while my mom and I stood in the living room talking about lamps. I heard the rumble of my dad's truck pull up and shortly thereafter the grunts of two men trying to maneuver the bulky machinery up the steep steps. The front door pushed open to reveal my brand-new, very used, missing a foot, mustard yellow dryer. It was beautiful!
I believe in love at first sight.
The boys wrestled in the washer next which weighed three times more. There was so much love in that living room. Love for my parents who drove across town to aid us in this major event, love for those Paul's who nearly toppled down the stairs with the washer, love for the washer which, thankfully, wasn't the color of a condiment and had all four feet, but mostly it was love for that beautiful dryer which would help me fulfill all my fantasies of warm jeans on a cold morning and hot towels around my shoulders.
They spent no time at all hooking cords and tubes to the wall. It was time to test them. The washer was turned on and how wet and wonderful it seemed as it hummed it's 'zigga zigga' hum. We moved on to the dryer, that beautiful dryer. The knob was turned and then the button was pushed. . .
The most awful noise of banging and crashing bellowed from it's rotating drum. "Turn it off!" I cried. We peeked inside only to find papers and booklets and metal hose parts that the previous owners place in there in case we needed them. What a noise they made. They were promptly removed and we turned the dryer on for a second try.
Imagine the looks on our faces as the dryer roared up again with out much change in volume. I'm sure it was the sound of a dryer shouting and proclaiming it's love for me. It was so happy to be siting on flooring of equal vintage and in my presence that it could not contain itself. I was flattered. . .
And a little repulsed. I felt my heart close off to that machine as I imagined a baby sleeping on the other side of the wall and a tired Kayla trying to do laundry before nap time was over. I imagined turning on that dryer and the infant dying of fright. I imagined the apartment toppling from the sonic waves and me, covered in rubble, holding Paul's hand as we took our last earthly breaths. "I love you," I imagined I'd say.
No, that dryer must go before Paul and I reproduce for the safety of our future family. The love affair is over and we still await a tax refund so we may purchase a new used dryer that won't be the Rowberry destroying angel.
(I suggest you turn your volume up to get the full effect.)