Deadly Dryer Casualty

Ok, Now I’m Being Dramatic

I just moved into my new condo by Lake Michigan, and let’s just say, everything was going flawless until I used the dryer. It’s not that I don’t know how to use a dryer though some could argue this: one being my mother (Her idea of a dryer is the outdoor clothesline even when it’s snowing outside.) two myself (At my old place I had to call my landlord because I was convinced that the dryer was broken since it wasn’t drying any of my clothes, yet it was still spinning; however, come to discover a couple hours later, I had left it on fluff. I didn’t tell my landlord that part. I didn’t want to look like an idiot. I’ll just look like an idiot to the whole world now.).

If I had only listened to my mother this incident in Sheboygan would have never happened. “You don’t have to dry anything with this basement; you have tons of room for a clothesline,” she said after we viewed the place a month back.  In the fall I would be the new assistant professor of general studies at Lakeland College, my undergraduate alma mater, but I think my mom may have been more excited by the fact that I could hang wash in my basement. However, after 18 years of hanging loads of wash on a line for her, I was gonna take the easy way out: the dryer.

Everything was going perfect like I said until I came back down to remove my clothes. They were dry—this is good, but the dyer had also attempted to take three lives: my black full-body slip, my hippy tank that is just long enough to be a dress if I don’t bend over (I wear jeans shorts underneath.), and my one and only strapless bra. The tangled collection dangled down like on a noose to the inner rim of the dryer.  One of the hooks from the strapless bra had snagged. Many words fell from my mouth that I can’t repeat (I made this blog PG.), but I will say that I was considering kicking the dryer like it was a real person and giving it a beating back. Now, you are probably thinking this is no big deal. Uh, yeah it is! Most women would just cut the noose, toss the casualties, and find new loves, but I didn’t have that option. I needed to save them. I’m not buying any clothes until 2014.

I slowly tried to pry loose the three amigos. When I found out they wouldn’t budge, my temper got the best of me (thanks Dad), and the “slowly” turned into “quickly” as if I were removing an industrial size Band-Aid.  The clothes came free all right, but the slip’s rings that held the adjustable straps bruised and bent, the top’s strap was amputated, and the  bra’s hook became a fixture to the dryer (I would pry this out later with a pair of needle-nose pliers with my headlamp on.). Oh, why didn’t I listen to my mother? Because we never listen to our mothers until we become them. I still had way to go.

Until then I tried my sewing skills again. First patient, my bra. This I would need in the upcoming weeks. I purchased a set of hooks and eyes from Hobby Lobby. I could do this I thought. When I got back home, I realized I didn’t have any black thread, so green had to do. Who was going to examine my bra that closely—surely no man—so giving it a bit of an Irish flair would be fine.

Sewing and Saving my Bra

After I hand sewed the hook on, I of course, had to try it out. I twirled, yes twirled, around in front of my full-length mirror and was pretty proud of myself, when pop! Yup, there went the freshly fastened hook, flying across the room never to be found again unless by the vacuum.  “Shit!”

The bra didn’t fall down to my waist with the missing hook, and I thought perhaps I could get away with just one, but then I considered the future outcome of that decision that held potential for leaving me topless.  I definitely wouldn’t be spinning around with pride if that happened, more like screaming and running like Sasquatch was chasing me.

I sewed that hook on three more times until it was one with the bra, so I could stay in place. I have plans to try it out this weekend, so please pray for me and my Irish themed bra. I don’t want to be the next casualty.