My clothes dryer has become pretty opinionated lately.
For the past thirteen years, it has dutifully and quietly performed every task weāve given it with nothing more than a soft murmur of industry to let you know it was on the job. But just this summer it has started mouthing off with an endless mantra of squeaks and bumps that echo through the house, even with the door to the laundry room shut.
Iām not sure what itās trying to say because I donāt speak GE Dryer, but it sounds like itās something important enough for me to try to figure out.
The sentence is a five-syllable chant that never variesā one loud squeak, followed by two quick, softer squeaks, then another accent squeak capped off with a final softer squeak.
It may be chanting: āHERE, take your PHONE back.ā Or maybe āSTOP eating DOnuts.ā But that canāt be it, because my phone is in my pocket, and even an appliance should know the difference between a donut and a chunk of coffee cake. As if itās any of the machineās business what Iām munching on anyway.
Maybe itās: āWHO wants some ICE cream?ā
Or: āMOVE to KenTUCKy?ā
Or: āDONāT kiss a PENguin?ā
I donāt know. All I know is that machine has had plenty to say lately.
I guess I should have seen it coming, because at thirteen years old, that dryer is just entering those awkward adolescent years, complete with an overinflated view of its own opinion expressed in a loud, squeaky, changing voice.
Itās not the first time Iāve lived with an opinionated appliance. Before we moved to the house we live in now, we lived in a house for 27 years, and for many of those years the clothes dryer squeaked and rattled any time you sent it tumbling.
My wife argued that we should get it fixed, or even send it packing and get a new one, but it still got the clothes dry and I was sort of attached to it, squeaks and all.
She said: āFineāyou can do the laundry whenever Iām out of the house.ā She said it in a āgotchaā tone that implied that the discussion was happily settled.
Now, a threat like that might send most husbands straight out to Sears, but I accepted the deal without hesitation. Thatās because I knew that washing and drying clothes is the easiest household task imaginableāespecially if you donāt mind finding your white shirts have turned a little pink, or your wool sweaters have suddenly gotten a bit snug.
Besides, I knew that dryer wasnāt really expressing an opinion I needed to figure out. No, that appliance was an accomplished percussionistāas regular as a metronomeāthat could hold down a perfect 4-4 time for hours on end without a single carpal tunnel complaint. Whenever my wife hit the road on laundry day, I pulled out my harmonica and we jammed to some pretty snappy blues tunes. When we really got going, the dog provided the vocals. And we rocked it out, man!
But for some reason, I think itās different this time around. I donāt think this screeching dryer in my house now is another mechanical Keith Moon, or even a budding Buddy Miles.
No, this dryer seems to have something to say. And it really seems insistent about it.
And just a few minutes ago, I realized with a shudder that I think I know what it is.
Because after I dumped a load of clothes into the dryer and set it to spinning (and opining), I closed the laundry room door and walked to the living room, where CNN was on the TV.
And as the panel of political āexpertsā screeched mechanically over one another on TV, Iām pretty sure I could hear that ardent appliance shouting to me through the closed door: āHILLary NEEDS you!ā
Or maybe it was: āTRUMPāll win, TRUST me!ā
I may be wrong. That may not have been it at all. But now I canāt get it out of my head.
And if I have to listen to that stumpy appliance stumping for a political candidate for the next two months or soānot to mention the endless mechanical moaning or boasting thatās sure to come once the election is overāIām pretty sure my neighbors will hear a new laundry-day mantra echoing from my house, one that sounds a lot like: āPOUR me some WHISKey,ā in a voice that sounds a lot like my own.
Of course, I could just make my peace with wearing dirty clothes from now on and let the unused dryer keep its cold, insistent opinion to itself.
As a worst-case scenario, I may have to give in to the option my wife prefers, and make a quick trip to Sears.
And that would happen sooner rather than later if the Cubsā magnificent season collapses in Octoberābecause thereās no way Iām going to spend the whole winter listening to that bucket of bolts keep saying: āWAIT until NEXT yearā¦ WAIT until NEXT yearā¦ WAIT until NEXT yearā¦.ā