06242017Headline:

Mr. Fix It

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Well, the bets are in, and in the race to break first, the dryer beat out the van, the other car, and microwave by a long shot.

Don’t worry, all other appliances are still putting in the effort to quit working, but we’re really proud of the washing machine’s soul mate for biting it before either one of us could say, “Did you time the dryer to run all night without stopping?”

When Husband did finally ask that question, I only had the faintest idea of what was going on, and carefully answered, “I thought that rhythmic thrumming I heard all night was my heart producing copious amounts of love for you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Huh, then maybe it was that really wet blanket I put in there. Anything’s possible.”

Ideas of what to do with the new conundrum soon began flying, and their seemed to be a difference in opinion on what to do. Someone, who shall remain unnamed, called me at home and suggested I go buy a clothesline.

While I was thrilled I could hear through the earpiece the baby had chewed on, I had my qualms. “But it’s not even 1925.”

“Yes, but we need to dry clothes.”

“Clearly, dearest, but I can just call a repair man. It’s what I do. I do that almost as well as I avoid cleaning the bathroom. Let me show you my finesse.”

“I’ll fix it myself. And, in the meantime, I’ll go buy the clothesline.”

There were two things wrong with this plan. First off, hanging clothes on the spider-frequented deck freaked me out, the thought of finding Wild Kingdom in my bra was enough to make me shut down negotiations. Secondly, Husband, while having the ability to fix most things, does so sporadically because he’s usually working to feed all Kellermans who reside here.

I estimated the fix time to be around Christmas.

However, after all children had gone to bed and I’d returned from my milk, wine, Skittles run, I padded down the stairs to find a rather attractive man with bloodied knuckles engaged in combat with the dryer that no longer cared about us.

“How’s it going?”

He looked up. “Only time will tell. Eight of these screws came out and only four are going back in.”

I nodded. “Well, you know what they say, “As long as the back of the dryer doesn’t fall off, a fifty-percent success rate counts as a hundred-percent success rate.”

For the next few minutes, I lent moral support, held a lamp, and only excused myself once to go check on the children, who I was sure were walking around upstairs. After which, I returned with a glass of wine.

“Were the kids up?”

“No, it was the wine. The wine was walking around. The kids are actually asleep. Interesting.”

But, you know what? The dryer works. He fixed it.

Which means I’m an ass and need to learn to believe my husband more often. Oh yes, and there won’t be spiders in my bra.

It also means, before he knows it was there, I’ll spend the next few minutes scraping Laffy Taffy off the bottom of his dress shoes the twins just presented me with.

 

Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com, and is the author of At Least My Belly Hides My Cankles: Mostly-True Tales of An Impending Miracle. You can reach her at paigekellerman@gmail.com.

She also hides out on Twitter and Facebook.


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