I’ll be the first to admit that I currently have a strained and dysfunctional relationship with my washer and dryer. In fact, the intimacy we once shared is nothing but a fading memory of mine. Ever since I went back to full-time work, I rarely give my appliances the time of day. Do I miss them? Heck, no. Did I fall into the deep abyss of depression when our extra-capacity dryer died last week? Heck, yes.

I’ve been a wet and wrinkled mess ever since!

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I have an unhealthy, co-dependent relationship with my laundry machine. That kind of admission would require a level of counseling I currently can’t afford. No, over the past five months, I’ve had to separate myself from our daily interludes and accept that my husband is now wooing the appliances instead. Do I feel like the “other woman”? Perhaps. Am I ready to call off the sick and twisted love triangle? Absolutely not.

You see, having a husband who’s actually willing to pursue a relationship with an appliance, of any sort, is a wild and wonderful thing. Why would I discourage personal growth like that? In fact, since he’s become the wash-and-dry philanderer, I’ve felt nothing but sweet, unconditional love for them. Needless to say, though, when the dryer went belly-up in the midst of a torrid, tumble-and-dry session last Friday, I felt as if my freshly laundered world had come to an end. Heaven forbid their affair should end now! They have so much more to learn from each other!

The next morning, Mark calls a repairman to revive the deceased and the prognosis is grim. Seventy dollars and a new switch later, we’re no better off. As far as the tool-man is concerned, the surgery’s cosmetic. His advice: take our 20-year-old model and trade it in for a new one. (Call me overly analytical, but there’s irony in that, I’m sure.)

“Can’t we just make do with the old one?” I ask.

“Only until she gets too hot and burns out again.” (Call me overly analytical, but I’m sure there’s irony in that, too.)

“Ah-huh.”

I slink back upstairs to break the news. “Apparently, she’s getting too hot.” I say defiantly. “Maybe you two should cool it down for a bit.”

Three days later and the dryer is dead again. What can I say? My husband’s relentless. She really didn’t have a chance.

“What are we going to do now?” I whine as I root through dirty laundry for something to wear.

“I guess we’ll have to buy a new one.”

I groan. This is the second major appliance we’ve had to replace in a year and we’ve only lived here for a year.

Mark unhooks the dryer and shoves it towards the door. “Give me a hand. Before we buy a new one, we have to get this one out.”

Two hours later, the dryer is as unyielding as a bunny-wielding mistress. It’s still on the wrong side of the door.

“Heaven and hell in a hand-basket…” I snap. The love affair is well past its usefulness. I want the cursed thing out. We try sideways, frontways, backwards and upside down. We try everything short of smashing the cursed Kenmore to pieces. (Believe me; it wasn’t from lack of trying!) No matter how we turn it, we can’t get the dryer past the furnace and out the door. “How in heaven’s name did they get this trollop in here?” I give it a swift kick to the rear and wipe my furrowed brow. “This family can’t live on a washer alone. There’s got… to be… a way.”

Another hour and pending separation later, the light-bulb goes on. “How old did that repairman say the dryer was?” I ask suspiciously.

“I don’t know. Twenty years?”

“And when did they say they finished off the basement?”

Mark’s face turns three shades of purple. “Two or three years ago…”

“Good grief!” I slump to the floor and convulse as if physically maimed. “You mean to tell me they built the walls of the laundry room AFTER they put in the appliances?”

WANTED: A hundred pounds of dynamite, pocket-sized dryer, and address of former owner. (…and no, not necessarily in that order.)