Washer Wars: A Magnetic Mystery

Over the last couple of weeks I've spent a fair amount of time INSIDE of my washing machine.  The interesting news is that I've discovered I can fit inside a washing machine, the futile news is, really, when would that little absurdity ever come up naturally in a conversation?  "Hey did you know I fit inside a washing machine?" Of course IF somehow I did manage to figure out how to wedge that bit of hooey into a conversation I'd leave out the part that it's a huge front loading washer in order to give off a deceitful impression that I'm super skinny and possess serious flexibility skills.

But the reason I've been spending quality time inside my washer is the real scuttlebutt.  Over the last two weeks something major has been banging around in my washing machine every time I run a load.  I toss in a bunch of clothes into an empty machine, turn it on, and sometime during the washing or spinning cycles the most ferocious banging sound thunders from my laundry room.  This is no ordinary clink of a few playground pocket rocks mind you, it's an earth shattering

Bang! Bang! Bang!

I'd know the sound of playground rocks when I hear them.  I'm an expert in playground rocks and what they sound like in ANY household appliance--including blenders (which is the very reason I firmly believe boys of any age should not watch infomercials).  I've got a jar full of playground rocks in my laundry room.
One curious month several years ago, I decided to collect and put into a jar every single rock that came out of my washer or dryer for 30 days, just to see if it was really that bad.  It was.

This "30-days-of-rocks-in-my-laundry" jar still sits on a shelf in my laundry room.  It reminds me of the exact reasons why motherhood has driven me occasionally insane and what a fabulous mother I am for having not killed any of my children...yet.

So the recent unidentifiable ear-splitting clash inside my washing machine for two weeks strait had me declaring war on whatever it was.  After each load and accompanying thrashing, I'd throw myself into the thing and give it a thorough groping as if I was working airport security.  And what did I find?  Nothing.  When I'd run another load, guess what I hear again?

Bang! Bang! Bang!

And as soon as I heard it, I'd be there waiting for the end-of-cycle buzzer and throw the door open expecting to find a toaster or a hub cap or something inside the tub.
But what did I find?  Absolutely Nothing. 

Again I run another load.  Bang! Bang! Bang!  Wait for the buzzer, throw open the door, pull out all the clothes, just sure I was about to find a set of fireplace tools or perhaps a skateboard but nope, I always found nothing. Just me inside a washing machine and the echos of a thousand curse words.

I was officially more agitated than the appliance.

Look for yourself...do you see ANYTHING on the bottom of the tub here?

Nothing. 
For two weeks I was driven insane.  I was officially at war with an unknown enemy.  I needed a battle plan.

I decided to run yet another load but this time I was determined not to wait for the buzzer.  I just stood there staring down that machine like I had challenged it to some sort of high-noon western quickdraw. With hands at my side ready to rip the door open at the slightest sound.

It took ten full minutes, but there it was Bang! Bang! Bang!
Out flew my pointed index finger and in heated frenzy I put the thing on "pause" and clawed all the wet stuff out, and dove head first inside the danged thing once again.  This time I decided I wasn't coming out until I solved the mystery. Water was seeping onto the floor but I didn't care, a casualty of war.

Now you'd think that living on Planet Earth with all that gravity business that a simple check of the lower half of the tub like I had been doing would have been adequate.  Alas it was not.  However reasonable it thought it was to assume that whatever it is banging around in there would surely be found resting at the bottom of the tub...underestimated one important force of nature...

The Boy-Factor.  Rock loving, magnet loving boys.  MAGNETS! Like an idiot, I never bothered looking anti-gravity UP.  Why would anything be stuck to the top of the drum?  Unless of course it was a giant magnet.

AH HA! See it now??

Yep, there it was all the time...somewhere on the TOP of the drum each time I checked.

The mother of all magnets.

A huge, heavy, bang-inducing magnet.  For two weeks this thing drove me mad.  

So what did I do with the thing?  I looked up at my jar of aggravating playground rocks and just shook my head.  I thought my machines and I had seen it all. Then I went in and stuck it back in Connor's room on his metal wall. I figured if he ever left it in his pocket again and tossed his pants into the wash, it would only be fair to use it to magnetize him to the wall for a lengthy Time Out.

Next time something bangs in the dryer, I'll be looking down for playground rocks (or toasters and hubcaps) and UP for gargantuan magnets.  Until then, I'm pleased to know I can fit inside a washer.

Washer Wars, another domestic triumph.  

Blinded by Pride

This past Sunday I found myself sitting on a church pew, sandwiched between Mark and a friend-both of whom had their readers perched proudly-boldly-and OLD-ly upon their noses.  When it came time for hymn singing, these two nice gentleman graciously held the book open for me to share.  The only problem was, I'm still waging my "fight aging to the death" campaign, which means I still refuse to wear my new readers in public.  This posed an even bigger problem-- it meant that they could both see and therefore they held the book up WAY TOO CLOSE for me to read!

So to cover my wretched aged-ness, I simply lied and said I was so overcome by "the spirit" I just couldn't utter a single note.  When in fact, what I was REALLY overcome by, was my decrepit vision.  I couldn't see a damn word on the page. 

Soon,  I realized that I'd both LIED and SWORE under my breath
IN A CHURCH.  Now I'm old AND a sinner.  Two very bad things.  So now I've got some serious repenting to do.  Which is fine, I suppose, as long as I don't have to do any public reading.

My Nemesis-The Boy Scouts

It's been the most challenging love/hate relationship I've ever encountered.  My total nemesis.  It's the dang Boy Scouts of America.  They kill me.   As Connor just graduated from Cub Scouting to Boy Scouting I am faced with starting all over with another fresh shirt to sew and whole new series of patches to apply.  So, as I sit here behind the dreaded sewing machine, I am compiling a list of serious grievances in my head that I feel inclined to confess.  So I'm neglecting the bobbin for a moment and opting for bloggin'.  Here are a few of my rational complaints against the whole scheme, and a few irrational ones as well:

• Sewing on Patches-  You can just forget hand sewing altogether.  It simply isn't going to happen.  Ever.  But even patch sewing with a machine sends me into cussing fits like no other (as many things often do.)  My biggest beef here is that the whole Scouting program is designed to increase the skill sets of a young boy but I've never seen the BSA figure out that sewing might be a valuable skill set, especially since, as a matter of fact, they'll be earning plenty of patches which will require SEWING!  Therefore, somebody, please, in the name of all that's sacred to Scouting, I beg you...offer a SEWING MERIT BADGE and put us mothers out of our misery! 

Perhaps then they would sell more of this largely unused item...  

...and yes, I'm well aware of the fact that said patches can be applied in many different fashions but seriously folks; gluing, stapling, and velcro-ing just make for a shabby looking scout which would cause the legendary Fred Clark (and admittedly myself) to shutter in disbelief.  

• Those Awful Yellow Leader's Blouses-  Seriously yellow?  If Scouting also added a FASHION MERIT BADGE, the culprits who designed the yellow den mother's blouse, they would quickly realize that yellow is NOT a complimentary color suited to any skin type.  There is no make-up that will offset that "geez you look so pale and awful, are you tired?" look that comes from that darling of a shirt.  During the time I was compelled by lethal doses of peer pressure to be a Den Leader, I absolutely refused to wear the yellow shirt and bought male version in khaki.  An ever so undetectable improvement.

My complaint is legitimized by the accompanied photo above right.  In it please note the leader in the yellow blouse looks dreary and tired and not at all happy with the two fresh and perky den mothers in Khaki who are obviously laughing at her as they mock her gastly yellow blouse.

• Too Many Accessories-  Do you know what kind of rampage is caused each week when we play the "Where's my scout pants/shirt/hat/neckerchief/slide/belt/handbook game?  

This is exactly why I don't buy the official scout socks, wallet, key chain, knife, underwear, flash light, mess kit, hair mousse AND sewing kit.  Can you image the hours it would take to round-up all this extra gear and make it to their meetings on time?

• Mother's Pins-  I never ever remember what I was wearing the last time I was so delightfully honored with my newest mother's pin.  How do you expect me to find them all and wear them at once?  That would be a closet showdown like no other.  But, may I just say, I appreciate getting pins and NOT patches!  Though perhaps each boy should qualify for the PINNING THINGS ONTO YOUR MOTHER MERIT BADGE before these scatterbrained boys should be allowed to award it to us.

• Camp Out Laundry- You can smell the Scout van driving down the lane to drop off your stinky camper and his horrific pile of stench-filled laundry.  There is no amount of Tide and Downey fabric softener that can remove that indescribable smell of campfire mixed with B.O.  A gas mask is required for the first full week after a camp out if one intends on entering the laundry room.  Holding your breath will simply not do.

And that is why, Boy Scouts of America, I declare you my nemesis!

And now that I got that off my chest, I'm off to 

go sew patches on a brand new shirt!
[fade to cussing]

Language Lessons

Okay, I'm just gonna confess it.  A quote from Chloe:

"Mom!  That's the fourth time you've said THAT word...and it's SUNDAY!"

And now, it looks like I'm gonna have to think of a new cuss word specifically for use on the Sabbath.  Even though I thought my repeated expression was cautiously PG.  I guess it wasn't.  Hmmmm.  This is gonna be a real pickle.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

I've been good this year.  Perhaps a teensy weensy bit naughty, but certainly not enough to merit coal in my stocking.  I've worked very hard to turn over a new leaf and have changed my ways.  I hope you've noticed that I've:

• Cut down on swearing in front of the kids
• Limited my shoe buying   (This one was painful!)
  
• Gone hands-free with my cell phone when I drive
• Gotten better at doing the laundry on a timely basis
• Shown marked improvement sharing my chocolate
  

So I'm officially submitting  My Wish List:

I would like more time to read...

A new playlist to help me jog with a better attitude.  I think some new music might help me find my groove.  Probably not but it's worth a try.  Every time I run all I can think about it stopping.  Oh, and my I-pod just broke so  I'm gonna need a new one of those too.


No, not the boots, I would like the LEGS to be able to rock a pair of these...

well, okay, maybe the boots too.

Oh and speaking of body parts, I would like my eye sight back.  Seriously.  I'm really not happy wearing "Grandma Glasses" when I have to read.  It really sucks.

I love to cook but a Personal Chef would be nice...

But if that is way too much to ask for, cause I'd only need him part time, then could you please fill my freezer full of Lean Cuisines for those days when I don't feel like cooking??

 I'd also love it if you could have one of your little elves come and fix my central vac.  Somebody decided to suck a bunch of rocks up with it and it just doesn't work too well anymore. 

By the way, I'd love to know WHO did it too.  No one around here seems to be fessing up.  Even after I declared a swearing moratorium on myself and promised not to get upset should said offender come forward.  So could you check your naughty list and let me know who the culprit is and put coal in their stocking?  Oh wait, they'll probably want to vacuum that up too.  Never mind.

Maybe not an A+ but at least good grades for my teenage son.  We get a huge discount on insurance if his grades each semester are good.  And heaven knows, we could use some cheaper insurance premiums.  Have you checked out how much it costs to insure a teenage MALE driver these days?  It'll scare you.  So please Santa, doctor up his report card and send it on to Farmers Insurance.

And if it's not any trouble, I'd like this island off Belize...strictly for health reasons of course.  My doctor says I need more vitamin D.  Some rich banker doesn't need his island anymore so he put it up for sale, just in time for Christmas.

It's bargin priced. At least I thought so.

Thanks Santa.  You know where you can find the cookies.