I was already feeling helpless and “scrape me up off the floor because I feel yucky,” then Molly-the-Dog decided to have something resembling one of her heart “episodes” at the same time that our washing machine suddenly quit amid an unnecessarily dramatic cloud of smoke and a strong smell of electrical fire and my phone was blasting me with loud, terrifying Amber alert emergency notifications that I couldn’t at the time figure out how to silence.
The resultant voice message I left for my wonderful, strong, will-fix-everything-because-I-just-can’t-right-now husband was beyond pitiful. To borrow something from a common-day dramatist’s vocabulary, “I just can’t.”
At the time, I quite simply could not.
On the bright side, Molly is fine now, snoring calmly at my feet. B maintains that she has been playing this midday freakout game on occasion since we had to put her on beta blockers, and if that doesn’t explain it I’m convinced she was alerting either to tell me that the house was burning down or that my phone really needed to shut up. Either way, whereas the aging washing machine might have had a heart attack today, the dog did not.
In other good news, the delicates I’d dropped in to wash did not erupt into a cloud of ashes when the washing machine decided to make its dramatic stage exit. Any fellow bra wearers (or anyway, bra buyers) in the audience will appreciate this one for what it’s worth, especially when I tell you that I had dropped ALL of my nicest ones in that single load to wash. This takes bra burning to the whole next level, and one for which I’m not at all ready. “But it makes the same statement if I burn the old ratty, bent-out-of-shape one, right? Right?”
Edit: Mr. Midas Touch *scoffs* walked into the house after work, plugged the washing machine back in, fiddled with the dials, and voila! The bras are now clean. I say again, the bras are clean. Oh and also the dog is still fine.