It seems to me that these brain-sizzling dog days of summer have been with us forever, and that the heat has affected my reasoning. The week is only half over as I write this, but what a week it already has been.
Monday I’m preparing to turn right out of Homeland’s driveway onto Bryant when there’s a screeching of brakes behind me where a white pickup has threatened my right rear fender. All the pickup’s windows are rolled down. I assume the driver doesn’t have A/C. It’s hot and he must be miserable, so I offer a friendly wave and — though I doubt the infraction was mine — I smile and mouth, “I’m sorry.” He gestures as I turn left onto Bryant ... headed the wrong direction. If the driver’s gesture had been gentlemanly (which it decidedly was not), I wouldn’t have been flustered and had to turn around in order to reach Bryant Square where I returned the wrong flavor of coffee I’d picked up earlier that very hot day.
Tuesday would have gone better if I hadn’t had to leave the cool house where I was playing bridge and run out to my car — which wasn’t all that far away — for my allergy meds, and if the lock hadn’t been contrary, and if I’d found my meds right off in that red-hot car. As it was, I had all but stroked out before I regained my seat at the bridge table and not only reneged but trumped my own Ace in one move, thereby losing what should have been an easy win. Sorry, partner.
Now here it is Wednesday, and I figured once I’d started a load of laundry I’d be all set to share my simmering summer escapades with you, but that was more than two hours ago before the washtub — set on “Oversize” and filled to the brim with water and detergent plus a week’s worth of linens — had refused to start. I stood staring at my malfunctioning machine throughout a good portion of that first hour, working my way through denial. That traitor had allowed me to take it for granted since 1997. How dare it fail me now!
I pushed the Start button maybe a dozen more times, jiggled the plug-in and checked the fuse box in the garage. After that — having exhausted the sum total of my mechanical prowess — I headed for the Yellow Pages and left requests for callbacks with three repairmen.
A good deal of foot tapping later, I opened the machine’s lid for no good reason, reached down through the water to the bottom of the agitator, twisted it clockwise, closed the lid ... and was rewarded by the “floosh-flop, floosh-flop” noises I’d grown accustomed to throughout the past 15 years. A minor miracle, and goodness knows I needed it.
MARJORIE ANDERSON is an Edmond resident.