Swish-Swish

We are having a laundry crisis. About six months ago, we noticed that our washer had started making a noise like a rocket getting ready to launch out of our laundry room. It was so loud we couldn't hear the TV over it. We adapted by not running the washer while watching TV.

Then about three weeks ago, certain loads of laundry started coming out with black stripes and patterns of small dots all over them. The stripes and dots were comprised of something like crude petroleum, or at least some substance that was impossible to remove. So we had to choose between dirty clothes we could imagine wearing someday and clean clothes that had to go straight into the garbage.

We called an appliance repair company. Jason came out to "diagnose" our washer. In my naivete, I thought he was there to fix it. But no. He opened and shut the door a few times and announced, "Yep. It's pretty screwed up. I need to collect $55."

"That's it?" I said.

"Welp, you need a new bearing. And maybe a new basket. Someone will call you. In the mean time, feel free to keep using it. Don't be afraid of the loud noise."

"We're not afraid of the loud noise. We're afraid of the way it destroys our clothing."

"Ahhhh. I forgot."

Someone finally called us four days later to break the news. We were looking at a "two-man job" and ordering a part from Bangladesh and it would be "3-4 weeks" until it arrived.

I've started having nightmares about mountains of laundry breaking through our closet doors. Only now, instead of just seeing piles of David's jeans and t-shirts and sweaty wads of my workout clothes, I see hundreds of teeny, tiny socks and footie pajamas. When we moved into our own house, it was obvious to both of us that one of the major benefits of leaving our apartment would be having our own washer and dryer. In fact, these items were going to change our lifestyle considerably. We were also certain that owning a washer and dryer would be essential to childrearing. We have not wavered in these impressions in the past year and a half.

Now I've been Googling laundromats in our zip code and coming up with very few leads. Apparently other people in our neighborhood also enjoy washing their clothing in the privacy of their own home. I've also been suds-ing small batches of items in the kitchen sink, wringing them out, and tossing them in the dryer. Sometimes while I'm vigorously wringing I like to fantasize that I'm back in colonial times, or at the very least, a cast member on the PBS miniseries "Colonial House." I am bravely clothing my family as in olden days, scrubbing our garments on a rock by the river.

But if the dishwasher goes next, I'm not getting out of bed.