From the laundry room my dryer squawks, “I work at the bank! I work at the bank!”
This is so far from the truth that it doesn’t even rate a smirk. I go about my business cleaning my room, all the while pretending not to hear the ludicrous bragging. (It would make more sense for the washer to make such a claim, at least she (yes, she) could launder money.
Am I the only one who’s fluent in appliance-speak? Is it something going on in homes all across the country, I wonder, and I’m the only one brave enough to write about it?
Later, folding clothes fresh from the dryer, I feel a rush of affection for my poor old dryer who is so insecure he must make up outrageous stories. You nut, I think as I pull a warm fluffy towel from the gaping dryer mouth. I think of my dead car, my laptop that was out of commission for a couple of weeks, and my TV that quit showing a picture. Fickle is the only word for it.
But my dryer? He keeps rolling and squeaking along tossing out ridiculous claims and comments that sometimes make me roll my eyes or laugh, and always add a dash of much-needed whimsy to the rhythm of my days.