diagnosis: fuck'd

My washing machine stopped working on Friday night with all of my clothes and gallons of murky brownish water inside. What to do? I fished out the laundry. Do you know how much a fully soaked towel weighs? I rung it all out in the bathtub and hung everything up to dry, old school style. I then ascertained that the washing machine was, for all intents and purposes, fucked. It’s about thirty years old—it’s had a good run.

Anyway, I’m about negotiate a complicated maneuver this evening that involves picking up two boys I know, taking them out to southeast Foster where I’m purchasing a used machine off Craigslist, making them schlep the machine into one of their trucks, bringing said machine to my house, making them negotiate the old one up the steep spiraling staircase from my laundry room and then the new one down. Do they know what they’re getting into? I’m not sure. But as far as I’m concerned, they’re men—they were born for this.

However, with that said, I really dislike when things happen with my house that I cannot deal with personally. I’m a “single” young woman who owns a house, empowered and liberated etc etc, with pretty much no need for a man around to get things going. Still, when it comes down to it, I’m at the mercy of my 5’4” stature and weakling tendencies, and I’d be lying if that didn’t sort of frustrate me. Having to rely on other people kinda sucks.

Then again, there’s definitely an argument to be made for getting doors opened for you, flat tires changed, and heavy ass washing machines dealt with in a timely manor.