You can’t write better fiction than this.
I’ve said before that there are minor distractions in my life that don’t really have any effect on when the third book should be done. You’d be surprised at how much something can affect the other things that go on around your life though.
About two weeks ago, our clothes washer stopped draining properly. I tried my hand at it first, but no matter how intently I stared at the device, I just couldn’t bring it back to life. On Thursday, I had a repairman out, and basically told me that the pump was bad. It was pretty much what I suspected, but diagrams online weren’t really helping to explain where the pump was. I was looking for it in an entirely different area of the washer. So he came in and told me what was wrong, and how to fix it, so that I wouldn’t be charged an arm and a leg for what would have been a fifteen minute job.
Two days later, I tried my hand at fixing it. We have a joke around the house that Rhianna’s hair is ruining everything. She’s a beautiful ginger – it’s easy to spot her locks when their wrapped around the vacuum cleaner roller, or clogged in the tub. I teased her that if I found her hair in the washer, and if that was what was causing the pump to malfunction, she would get us a new washer.
Lo and behold, what did I find but a clump of lint reinforced by an outer shell of her hair in the pump. It was so robust that I didn’t have the dexterity to remove it with my hands. I had to use a set of long needlenose pliers to liberate that pump paralyzing beastie. Of course at that point, she was embarrassed, and bemoaning, yet lamenting her hair.
After I nursed the washer back to health as best I could, I began running a litany of tests on it. The pump kicked on, and it seemed like everything was going to be good. I noticed, then, that it was raining beneath the washer. There was a waterfall that was churning directly under the counterweight when the device was filling, so I put a saucepan under there to collect whatever precipitation I could. Over the course of this brilliant break-fix, I realize that the test is going to go into overflow mode – it’s filling beyond what I can safely gather in the saucepan, so I call for reinforcements.
Rhianna, bless her heart, ran in like the house was on fire. All I wanted was a cup to free up some of the water in the saucepan, but she treated it with the utmost urgency. She dumped the first cup of water in the sink in our bathroom, and then – THWACK!
Instantly, her protest shook the house. She came into the laundry room with a new gash on her nose, and laughed merrily at her coordination. Fifteen seconds later, that laughter morphed into uncontrollable weeping.
This woman and I haven’t been together for a year yet, but we have a remarkably strong connection. In our time together, we haven’t had a single fight. I’ve seen her cry in mourning, or because of something that she sees in a movie or a television show, but I’ve never seen her cry in pain.
Keep in mind that at that point, I was trapped underneath the washer. I still had a typhoon brewing right above my head, and a girlfriend bawling her eyes out and cursing up and down the house.
Over the next two days, things settled down a bit. Rhianna’s nose doesn’t hurt any longer, and there’s no bruise, but the reminder is still there in the form of dried blood that’ll scab over soon. She’s already able to laugh at herself and the situation, and even put this gem up on Facebook:
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