The Battle of the Washing Machine

I mentioned about a month ago that I had a struggle known as the Battle of the Washing Machine to relate to you.

One night, before I started preparing fresh clams for dinner, I sorted my laundry and put the first load in the washing machine. 'Cause I'm an adult like that. And not only did I put the clothes in the machine, but I actually added soap and started, it too. Word.

The idea was that I would put a second load in while the clams were cooking, and then another after I ate/before I prepared to go to the temple.

However. I got so fascinated by the death throes of the dying clams, I forgot to put in another load of laundry. Nor did I notice that the usual washing machine noises were not issuing from the laundry room. Or laundry hall, which would be a more apt name for the extremely rectangular laundry space in my apartment.

It wasn't until after I'd finished devouring the clams that I remembered my laundry. I stepped into the laundry hall and opened up the washing machine, expecting to be greeted by clean clothes.

I was instead greeted by a washing machine full of articles of clothing floating in cold, soapy water.

First I thought, hey, maybe there's too much laundry in there, even though I've washed more laundry than this at a time. So I proceeded to pull out about half of the clothes. This was a very wet decision.

Then I restarted the washing machine and went to change into my Sunday best. When I returned, however, the washing machine had stopped again.

I pulled out some more clothes. The floor was quickly becoming very wet and very slippery, so I grabbed the towels I was planning to wash in my third load of laundry and spread them on the ground.

I changed the washing machine settings, added some more for good measure, and started it... again. And it stopped... again.

I began to wonder if something was stuck in the inner workings of the washing machine. So I plunged my arm into the icy depths of the cold water and felt around for anything that seemed out of place.

I was unpleasantly reminded that I have no idea how the mechanics of a washing machine work. Baby Brother probably knows, but I don't. What would my hand find when it touched the bottom of the washing receptacle? Spinning blades? Sharks? Grindylows?

None of the above. There was nothing interesting in the bottom of the washing machine, but there didn't seem to be anything wrong with it, either. Naturally, I restarted it once more.

Naturally, it stopped once more.

Pepper came home to find me in the laundry hall, dressed in my nice clothes and on the verge of spontaneous frustrated combustion.

Pepper was all, "Have you tried--?"

And I was all, "DON'T MOCK ME. I'VE TRIED EVERYTHING."

Like all battles, the Battle of the Washing Machine has statistics. By the time I got the washing machine to properly wash my clothes, I had racked up quite a few statistics indeed.

Number of Total Hours I Spent Tinkering with the Washing Machine: Several

Number of Gallons of Water Upon the Floor of the Laundry Hall: Enough to reenact the sinking of the Titanic.

Number of My Towels Used to Clean Up the Water: All of them. And some dish towels, and some sweaters.

Number of Times I Kicked the Rather Newish Washing Machine: More than a civilized being should.

Number of Times the Washing Machine Started Up After I Kicked It: Once.

Number of Casualties: One, namely my confidence in my ability to do laundry without turning it into a theatrical production.