Washing machine

OK, the washer died. Well, it disintegrated. The dryer died a couple months ago when finally I could not fix it. They were nearly thirty years old and for a full three quarters of our marriage they were in the laundry room whirring and spinning and sloshing and sometimes clumping like a Maureen Tucker drum track. It was sad seeing them go, worn out and useless. Speaking of which, there were some guys laying down linoleum in the kitchen for you to spill beer on and the landlady had them take the carcasses down to the street for large item pickup or whoever gets there first. She figured I’m over sixty and a gimp and there was no way I could manage. Three decades ago when we left our old neighborhood in the heart of Silverlake (a crackhouse opened up three doors down, a shooting gallery three doors up) and moved to the toney Silver Lake suburbs I remember manhandling those machines down the steps, carrying them across the lawn and lifting them up onto the truck. Then lugged up the steps here and manhandled then into place in 90 degree weather. Apparently washing machines are heavier now, or steps steeper.

Anyway, getting new ones next week and I’ll be damned if I lift a finger to help. Now get off my lawn.

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