Our dryer has died.
I noticed yesterday after tossing in a load of wet stuff that, after two hours of tumbling, it was still wet. It was COLD and wet. Ever the optimist, I reset the dryer and let it tumble more. It was slightly less wet and cold when I checked it.
I've been through this one before. Dead heating element. Call Sears. They can show up next week.
I have wet laundry. I don't have a clothes line (they are not permitted by deed in our neighborhood). This means there is a laundry mat in my future.
I don't like laundry mats. I have been spared them most of my life (except for a couple of apartment buuilding laundry rooms). Laundry mats are strange places peopled with folks with little regard for my underwear. I fear that, while reading my trash novel and waiting for the spin cycle, someone will leap upon the dryer where my precious things have just taken their final turn and toss them onto the floor, even if I leave my laundry basket sitting right there. I don't like digging for quarters under the seats of my car. I don't like checking my dryer sheet to see if it has one more cycle in it, or cramming as much into one washer as I can because I only have so much soap, thus creating grey (or even more terrifying, pale pink) everything.
I'm almost 40 and I did all that already. I make house payments and buy my own machines just so I can skip all that.
Another disaster is the immenent de-Christmastizing of the house.
I love the decorating. Everything looks so warm and festive and picture perfect. I love the lights in the windows and the silk poinsettas (Hey, I have cats) and the smell of cinnamon spice.
When I take it all down is the moment I realize I need a new storage box. After Christmas is NOT the time to shop for storage boxes. It is also the time to realize the teeny tiny attic space we have under our huge roof (I don't get it -- we have a HUGE roof, and far too much space open to the house under it -- Cathedral Ceilings should be restricted to Cathedrals. In houses, they suck) yet, due to the strange conjuntion of our rafters, crawling through our attic requires contortionist's skills and no hips. Hips cannot get into our attic (techically, atticS, plural, as there are three of them, quite separate, none very large and none terribly good for storage. That's Florida for ya.)
Anyway, taking down the Christmas stuff is depressing. On the positive side, the mothballs under the Christmas Tree saved my ornaments from Bea-predation. She only broke one this year and I don't think she hid any.
I am also spending too much time playing Sims 2. I should be ashamed of myself, really.