Every year for Christmas I like to buy a sexy little outfit for Mike to celebrate Jesus’ birthday. Last year I bought Naughty Mrs. Claus. Did you know they sold different size pasties? Me neither. A-W-K-W-A-R-D. This year I decided to keep it simple and bought an expensive sexy pair of trashy velvet underwear trimmed in white fur. They came in the mail. I threw them in the wash and forgot about them.
About a week later I was drying a load of towels when I realized smoke was coming from the back of the dryer and it was making an appalling squealing noise. My keen intuition suggested that this was indicative of a problem so I shut the laundry room door, put a fire extinguisher next to it and finished drying my towels so they did not get moldy. I then made a mental note to tell Mike to fix it later.
Annnnnnd then it occurred to me………..MY JESUS PANTIES! OMG. I set my laptop up on the washer and found a YouTube video on how to disassemble a dryer for Christmas panty retrieval, assuming mechanical proficiency is a layman’s skill that everyone is capable of accessing. Truthfully, I have never even opened the hood of my car except when I had to have 2 different guys jump me (that’s right, 2! Mama still got it) when Mike was out of town and the girls left a dome light on. However, tears sprungeth from my eyes like a poet who hath found her prose because this time I had situation under control.
Well, I couldn’t even pull the stupid f’ing thing out because it was so heavy, so I switched to Plan B and called a repair company, gave them my info and requested a female technician. Weeeeeeeeeell unbeknownst to me, our country apparently halted progression on sexual equality when they patted themselves on the back and allowed women to vote and breastfeed in public because apparently they do not allow estrogen to permeate the stringent confines of the mechanical arena. What bullshit. As soon as I dealt with my personal problem, I was going to do my patriotic duty and write a letter to our chauvinistic congress, picket the capitol and lay down in front of a two thousand-year-old tree as part of my peaceful protest (until I was mistaken for a drunk, homeless person and arrested just to prove my point that women will no longer stand for the unsubstantiated, insulting, prejudiced title of “repairMAN”).
Mike got home and asked if I burnt dinner because the house smelled like smoke. “No. I didn’t even make dinner SIlly.” (To further support my gender role repression remonstration.) “It is the dryer and it almost caught on fire and I have no idea why.” Mike went in and poked around in there. “Well, it was really smart of you to take the clothes out of there. A fire really could have started.” “I know right? I was super scared,” I smiled. Mike then said “I will call Nic.” Nic happens to be a friend of Mike’s. Fuck.
The next day Nic came out and had that bitch taken apart in about 5 minutes. I decided to just tell him the truth that my panties were about to burn the house down. I held my head up high and left to go pick my kid up from her friend’s house. When I returned Nic informed me that “it was not my panties after all, just a loose ball bearing, headlight, brake fluid, lint build-up, whatever, boring etc. etc. etc. but thanks for the panty story. It is nice to know that the good doctor is still getting some on occasion.” A woman technician would have never said such vulgarities.
Anyhow, the next day I received an e-mail from the repair company saying they do not discriminate against potential employees on gender, race blah, blah, blah since I razed them a bit on the phone. Satisfied with their explanation and amused by their response, I decided to resume my wifely duties and found my panties when I was folding laundry. They were stuck to the back of Mike’s scrubs. They looked like a nasty little hamster, tangled up in a dryer sheet and covered with lint. It was a Christmas Miracle after all. XO