Now that I have acquired a little ankle biter, the accomplishment of any previously mundane task was just that- mundane, and now all hell seems to break loose every time I need to do the dishes. Such was the case this morning. All I needed was eight minutes to bathe myself, and be still my beating heart, it was a fiasco.
Let me take a moment to crucify the Whirlpool Corporation before I get stared on my own troubles. Our washer and dryer, the stacked kind suitable for apartment dwellers wishing to wash only a single sock at a time, is located just outside our bedrooms. I am not sure what jackass in R&D decided that there was no need to equip this particular model with a switch to disengage the buzzer on the dryer, but I could murder him with a melon baller if I was supplied with his whereabouts. Now, I can appreciate that the ceasing of a steady hum may not be desirable for the hearing impaired set, or that a particularly fastidious multi-tasker might want to know at the exact moment his articles are dry, but does this necessitate issuing a beguiling shriek to let you know that the cycle has completed? I think not. What that buzzer is good for is waking a sleeping child or startling a dog to the point of urinating on itself. Good for you, Mr. Dryer Man.
Not only is the lack of auditory control pissing me off, but the machine is seriously lacking in mechanical merit. This dryer is much like a cheap toaster; one cycle merits a barely defrosted toaster waffle, two cycles will leave you writhing in pain as the rivets in your jeans brand tiny “Banana Republic”s across your abdomen and issue such a copious number of static sparks that the Aurora Borialis are suing for copyright infringement. But alas, this is the least of my problems when I am in serious need of a shower.
Bathing is one of the tasks that is only possible when Finn is asleep. I look forward to this one moment of hot water and serious alone time the way a heroin addict needs his next hit or the way Edward Cullen thirsts for the blood of his beloved (no, thank YOU, Stephenie Meyer). With his breakfast behind him, Finn and I settle into our regular routine; polish off a bottle, snuggle up in bed with a binkie and bring on the snoozefest. This morning, not so much. I know that things are bad when I fire off whispered f-bombs to Nathan for breathing too loudly and waking the baby. This was such an occasion, and it only got worse.
Thirty minutes later, after Nathan had wisely taken refuge at the local library, I finally get the little guy into his crib. No sooner have I (stupidly) gone downstairs to delete a few errant emails and return a phone call than I hear little gasps and giggles emitting from the baby monitor. Finn, completely and boisterously awake, smiles at me as I scoop him back up and repeat the process of rocking, jiggling and bouncing the boy to the brink of my own exhaustion. At this point, I entertained the thought of placing him beneath an upturned laundry basket weighted down with a hefty stack of phone books, but the shame and guilt would have been too great; I soldiered on. Again, just asleep, he is roused by a furious cry from the damned dryer announcing that my jeans are ready for their daily branding. Just like shampoo; rinse and repeat… So I do, and ten minutes later I utter a weak sigh as the pacifier pops out of the side of his gaping mouth, a sure sign that I have completed my mission.
After placing him gingerly in his crib, I hold my breath and stalk on tiptoe, an elf trying not to disturb a dozing beast in a Tolkien novel. I close the door quietly behind me and leap into the shower, hyper aware of every creak of the floorboards and wincing at the whoosh of the bathroom fan and the spatter of the water. This is the moment, of course, where the clatter of a falling razor makes my heart skip a beat and warrants a silent cursing of my Almighty maker, but the beast slumbers on. Quick with the shampoo, I rinse and lather up fast enough to make Mario Andretti pause in proud reverence for my speed.
Yes, I am clean and dry! I can’t remember if I got around to conditioning my hair, but at least I have a few extra moments to surf the web to determine the best deal I can get on a pitchfork with optional torch action. Someone is gotta take care of Mr. Dryer Man and that someone is me.