Of Washing Machines and Wellington's Overture

"Do you smell something burning?" I felt my nose crinkle.

"Yeah. I do." My husband got up and searched the house. "I think I see smoke."

All I could think about was the piano. My baby.

Then it occurred to me. For the past few months, the washing machine's sounded like a jet taking off. I've been waiting for this day.

Or waiting for the day when I'd discover a missing washer, a hole in my roof, and reports of UFOs.

Sure enough. The laundry room smelled of burnt rubber.

So began our search for a new machine. This is the first time I've ever bought a washing machine. At first, Chris didn't understand why I wanted to go with him to pick a new one out. Until I explained that I'm usually the one who does the laundry.

Men.

If you haven't been shopping for washing machines lately, let me tell you. They have gadgets and gizmos galore. You can get one designed in the fourteen hundreds for about $300, or you can look at the new models.

I couldn't help myself. We looked at the new models.

High energy. The thing uses less water than what would drown a mouse.

Not that I drown mice.

They had models that steamed and pressed and danced with the stars. They even had a red model.

"Oh, honey," I said. "Red." Something wet dribbled down my chin. "It's red. I would walk in the laundry room and be happy."

"Happy? We can spend the extra money for you to be happy doing laundry."

I'm not sure if I should attribute such altruism to his desire to make me happy or his desire to minimize my complaints.

But the red thing with all the buttons cost over twice as much as the one we bought.

It came today, my new washing machine. And for one time, one time only, I was excited to do laundry. I even washed it spin for a little bit. It's a front loader, which I've never used before. It only uses 7 gallons of water! (Compared to the 40 of our previous monster.) Plus, I had to watch it to make sure it's working. I can't hear the darned thing. It's motto: silence is golden.

I can even leave the laundry room door open.

Wait a second! I've talked for an entire post about laundry! Quick. Say something bookish. Kierkegaard and his either/or. E=mc2. Beethoven's music stretched the forms of the day, replacing menuets and trios with the raucuous scherzo, taking the development section far beyond where it had ever gone before.

Wshoo. I feel better now. 

Updated: And it plays a song to let me know when the cycle's done! Was this machine made for me or what?