Don't Look Behind the Dryer

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.

But You Forgot the Magic Word

I need, need, need to stop uttering the phrase "how hard could it be?".

This go-getter attitude has go-gotten me seeking medical attention on more than one occassion (hello, Great Batting Cage Incident of 2009), as well as cost me buttloads of money fixing my attempts at easy home repair (and also got me quite intimately acquainted with the backside of my washer and dryer ... saving that little gem for a later post). It led to a very Marshall Erickson, cool-guy tips freakout in the bathroom in March when I decided if the high-school dropouts at Great Clips can cut blunt bangs, so can I.

But this week, I hit a new low.

Bathing suit season is upon us, and certain, um, preparations need to be made before hitting the pool. Instead of seeking the council of my fair Lady Schick, or paying a professional douse me in hot wax, I simply though, "well, how hard could it be?" and purchased an at-home kit for such personal grooming situations.

Sparing the most intimate of details, let's just say the wax is not sticky enough to be effective, however, wouldn't come off despite fervent, Lady Macbeth-esque scrubbings. Not only did I waste money on the kit, I sacrificed two razor blades, one of the few decent washcloths we have left, half a roll of paper towels and one scrubby kitchen sponge and was still looking like I belonged in Madame Tussaud's.

Lesson learned? Probably not.