Luke and I sometimes feel like we live in the Money Pit house, except instead of being a big, glorious estate, it is a small, kinda crappy townhouse. You wouldn't think we would have that many problems, seeing as it was only build like 10 years ago. I am pretty sure I have t-shirts older than that (all of which have required far less maintenance), and I know in terms of buildings, that's really not that old.
Which is why anytime anything goes wrong, I throw an unholy fit, complete with foot stomping, hair pulling and smoke streaming out of my ears. It's just how I roll.
My husband is a firm believer in the philosophy of "throw money at it until it goes away," whereas I prescribe to the school of thought of "no way dude, that takes money out of the shoe fund." So we are do-it-yourselfers. Sort of. Usually we are "do-the-best-you-can-until-you-screw-up-and-then-call-Dad"ers.
So when the dryer stopped, um, drying, I immediately go into panic mode while Luke starts flipping through sales ads.
"This one is nice. And it's red."
"OH MY GOD I HAVE WET CLOTHES! I NEED DRY CLOTHES! RRRAAAAAGGHHH!"
Upon realizing how much washer/dryer combos actually cost, Luke quickly changes his tune.
Which is how I got stuck behind the dryer.
Not stuck like, "oh, this is slightly uncomfortable. I don't care for it."
Stuck like, "Call the reinforcements. And order pizza. We are going to be here for a while." I felt like a Chilean miner back there, all covered in lint and dog hair and for some strange reason, Monopoly money.
But I came out of it $1.26 richer ($152.26 richer, if you count the Monopoly money). I guess that is a win.