Thursday morning I slept in a little bit. It felt good to do that after the week I’d had. And by week I mean 12 days. Twelve days of running to my daughter’s house to feed the pets, 12 days of dealing with ill-fitting new eyeglasses, and 12 days with a broken washing machine. I’m not sure which one was worse.

But they say everything comes in threes and I am just grateful they don’t come in sixes because I was at the end of my rope. The only good thing going on was that with my daughter away I was able to use her washing machine each time I went to feed the pets.

What happened to my washer? Wish I knew. It made a high pitched noise and started throwing codes at me so I grabbed the manual — which didn’t list the codes I was getting but recommended I unplug it for 15 seconds.

This is how tech savvy I am. It never occurred to me that the washer had a plug and I wasn’t sure where it was. But I found it and had to climb on top of the machine to reach down the wall for it. It reset the machine and I was real proud of myself for fixing the problem.

Three days later I put in a load of towels and started it up but it just kept spitting codes at me. Oh was this going to be a new thing? It wasn’t. Because after I unplugged and plugged back in, it would do nothing except flash codes. Nothing. I couldn’t even turn it off!

I still had six months on the five-year warranty so I quickly called the store. A repairman would be by in two days. Okay, I could handle two days. He came but couldn’t fix it because it was electronic and needed a part. He wasn’t sure if it was the top brain or the bottom brain but he would order both and it should be a couple more days. Eight days later he showed up with one box. The wrong box.

He said that both brains were terribly pricey so he had read the codes to the company tech and was told it was more likely the top brain. My washer disagreed. The repairman said he would order the other part and it should be here in a few days. If that turned out to be true he might be coming back on Thursday, and I had a 3:00 Christmas party to go to.  Or did I?

As I was making a last minute angel for the ornament exchange at the party I hoped to attend, he called. Since I wanted my washing machine fixed a touch more than I wanted to go to the party, I told him to come on over. And though making it to the party was looking iffy I still made attempts to make the angel.

He came, he replaced, he ran an empty load while we chatted about all the places he has visited in Europe, and he left. I quickly threw in a load only to have it totally stop working so I put my repairman on speed dial. Amazingly he came right back. The culprit was a switch that was set for European loads — or some such nonsense.

I now had exactly half an hour to finish the ornament and change my clothes for the party. Luckily I changed my clothes first because it would have been impossible to do afterwards. You see, in order to get the dang angel done I put down my needle and thread and fired up the hot glue gun — hot being the operative word here. Fiery hot to be more specific. I did great putting the wings on, but when I glued the back of the head and picked it up to put it in place, it wrapped itself right around my first finger and boy did I let out a scream. I pulled it off and it wrapped around the thumb on my other hand. Another scream. And another and another as my attempts to pull it off me caused it to latch on to one finger or another as I raced to the bathroom for cold water. I could not believe the pain!

As I tried peeling the glue off my delicate fingers while underwater I actually took skin off with it. The first finger blistered up good, the second one bled, and the opposing thumb throbbed to the beat of “Cotton-eyed Joe.”

Maybe I wasn’t going to this party after all because I couldn’t keep my fingers out of the cold water for more than five seconds at a time before the burn raged again. But Lord help me, I’m stubborn so by using tweezers, I finished that *&#* ornament. Then I applied aloe, took an aspirin, put a glass of cold water in the car for dipping into and went to the party thinking it would take my mind off the ungodly pain for a little while.

That was wishful thinking. It was three hours before the throbbing took a coffee break.

And during all that time I didn’t think about my stupid eyeglasses even once. I think I can get used to them after all — as long as I keep hurting myself. 

               

 

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