I’m good with machines. Short of a nuclear reactor or an F-16 fighter jet, I’ll tackle most anything electromechanical. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it, especially when it comes to ordinary machines like those found around the house.
Garbage disposals, table saws, garage door openers, carpet shampooers, power sprayers, lawn mowers, leaf blowers, I’m master of them all. And yet, aside from chasing the dog with the vacuum cleaner, I don’t get much joy out of everyday household machines. They’re boring.
Responsible husband that I am, however, I do my part, tedious as it sometimes is. I load the dishwasher, even though she says I do it wrong. I vacuum the house regularly, even though she says I do it too quickly. I change furnace filters at least once a year; if she had it her way, she’d have me doing it weekly.
But the one piece of equipment I cannot abide is the washing machine. For one thing, it’s damned tiresome work lifting all those clothes, getting them balanced properly, picking the correct cycle. And your fingers get sticky from the detergent and fabric softener, never mind touching someone else’s dirty underwear and sweaty t-shirts. Yuck.
Worse, you never know when that old Whirlpool will up and go Cujo on you; at any second, it might slam the lid down on your arms, suck you into its frothy, gyrating innards, and give you the Super Cycle. The only evidence you were gone would be a small stream of pink-tinged wastewater making its way to the treatment plant. Washing machines are scary.
I was working from home a few days ago and, despite my trepidation, agreed to help the Nordic Warrior Queen catch up on the laundry (I hope my boss isn’t reading this). So after she left, I carefully loaded the thing up, dumped in the soap, set the cycle to heavy-duty (more is better, right?) and dropped the lid.
I put on my headphones and went back to work.
Maybe twenty minutes had passed when I sensed something was terribly wrong. A strange, sub-aural humming was coming through the music, and the floor was vibrating. Was it an earthquake? I switched off my iPod and heard what sounded like T-Rex battling a Triceratops. The awful noise was coming from the laundry room. Dreading the worst, I sneaked over to the laundry room door and slowly peeked around the corner. My most terrible fears had arrived.
The Exorcist, Poltergeist, Rosemary’s Baby – those movies had nothing on the horrifying scene before me. The Whirlpool was alive, and it was coming for me. The bone white machine was bouncing like a thing possessed. Huge globs of sudsy water flew through the air, the gaping maw of the machine was snapping open, closed, open, hungry to rend any incautious homeowners that came within its reach. Horrors!
As I watched in terror, the infernal machine suddenly broke loose of its moorings. The hoses holding it to the wall snapped, spraying water everywhere. If I didn’t do something quick, the room would be flooded. Suppressing my fear, I leaped onto the Whirlpool, riding it like a bronco from hell as I reached for the water shutoff.
With a superhuman effort, I twisted off the lifeblood of the possessed appliance. I was soaked. But still the beast was heaving beneath me, trying to crush its puny human opponent. Fearing electrocution, I grabbed for the electrical outlet, latched onto the cord and, with a tremendous heave, unplugged the wayward contraption. I was safe.
As it turns out, I’d piled too many clothes on one side of the basket and the machine was simply unbalanced. It wasn’t really possessed. I spent the next two hours cleaning up the mess and putting things right before the Nordic Warrior Queen arrived home from work. I don’t care what she says, though; I’m done with machines. From now on, I’m going to take my clothes to the little Chinese lady down the street.
Besides, I like the smell of the Dry Cleaner (the store, I mean, not the lady).