Let me preface this by admitting I am on major edge… and have been for the better part of the last week. I’m sure part of it is the trouble sleeping, compounded by the six or seven nightly trips to pee, with further complications courtesy of the aches in my hips, back and shoulders (did I mention that I literally lumber when I walk these days?), but whatever the causes, I’m feeling like I’m about to crack. My poor husband probably hates me (god knows, though I am continuously reminding myself otherwise, I feel like I hate him) and I am not at all pleasant to be around. Of course I try to keep my mouth shut most of the time and avoid people so the evil isn’t obvious… but it’s in there. And the hardest part is that I am beating myself up for it constantly.

That said, I don’t think I have anything to feel guilty about regarding the rant I just laid on the appliance repairman currently working in my laundry room. You tell me. Here’s the deal:

We have a relatively high end, European style all in one washer dryer that is meant to be energy efficient and very kind to clothes. It’s been great to us in the 13 or so months that we’ve had it, until, over the course of the last six weeks, it’s become increasingly less efficient. Clothes have required two (sometimes three) cycles to dry and now, they won’t dry at all. The machine will run for like 20 minutes (a typical dry cycle with this thing is 2 hours), then shut off… leaving the contents soaking wet. So today, faced with the reality that we cannot live without a dryer, we called a repair service. Being open to whatever time they chose, we were told they’d be here between 1 and 3pm. I am working from home this week anyway, so it wasn’t really an issue… beyond the fact that I did put off any heavy duty writing (choosing instead to watch a few episodes of Friday Night Lights — see title — for inspiration), simply because there is little I hate more than being interrupted when I’m in the flow.

How very zen of me, I know.

Point is, I organized my writing day (generally some variation on 12-7), around this service.

Anyway, 3pm rolls around and there’s no sign of the guy. I wait until 3:15 to call and I’m told that it’ll be another 20 minutes. 30 minutes later, the guy shows up and I’m totally nice… even though I get no apology. I lead him back to the washer dryer where he pulls it straight out and points for me to get the light for him. I would, except that I have a huge pregnant belly and can’t squeeze past him to reach it. He points again (did I mention the gruff Russian accent?), and I actually say “I would, but my belly won’t fit.” He looks up and notices that I’m pregnant. Gets the light himself with a grumble.

Now maybe it’s the fact that I’m used to people being nice to me (reminding me immediately of a song by a friend of mine called Pregnant Women Are Smug), but I’m already not loving the guy.

Anyway, at this point, I go to the room where the clothes that wouldn’t dry are hanging and bring him out a sample so as to show him what’s been going on (figuring that if he can see the result of a 20 minute dryer session, it may help). He doesn’t care to discuss it, but rather keeps asking me if there is heat when I turn the machine on (which I don’t really know since I am pretty sure that while there is heat involved, the mechanism actually sucks out the steam, which is part of the reason clothes that are dried in it show no signs of wear and tear). I try to explain this, but he’s too busy telling me repeatedly (as I stand there holding a wet tank top) that it’s not a dryer. Now I don’t give a damn about semantics, but apparently, more important than listening to me explain that the dryer function turns on but then shuts off after 20 minutes leaving the clothes soaking wet (this wet), it is imperative that he correct me — multiple times — for calling the thing we’re standing over a dryer. After going back and forth on this some more (Me: it’s always worked before, dried our clothes beautifully… Him: but it’s not a dryer!), I finally lose it.

“I’m 9 months pregnant!” I snap. “Don’t argue with me. I don’t care what the specifics are, it’s not drying clothes and I just want you to tell me what we have to do to fix it!”

You cannot imagine the shock on this guy’s face. I don’t even know what he mumbled at me, but it was some derisive “take it easy,” type comment, reserved I’m sure, only for women he believes are overly-emotional. For a moment, I felt guilty. Silly even (and I’m sure “silly idiot girl” is what he was thinking in his thick, Russian accented brain). Then I went back to my desk and took a breath. Within minutes, he was calling me to ask why the machine was turning on just fine, gesturing as if I was a moron for not realizing this was the case. “That’s what I was trying to tell you,” I said, feeling slightly vindicated, but still seriously hormonal. I explained myself for the tenth time in as many minutes… going back to the nursery to fetch the wet clothes as a demonstration tool when he was sure that I was crazy and just didn’t know how to turn on the drying function.

In the end, when all was said and done (it’s nearing 5pm as I write this… the ONLY thing I’ve written all day), he witnessed a version of the problem (the computer went from saying it had two hours to saying it would be done in 5 minutes), and figured out (I hope) what needed to be done to fix it. But it wasn’t until that moment, when he was ready to explain what he’d have to do, that my guilt and embarrassment (both of which are generally monumental these days) were assuaged and I became certain that this problem was not in my head, or my seriously compromised endocrine system.

Rather than giving me the specifics (cost, time, etc.), he asked if I could get my husband on the phone.

Now this could have spelled disaster. However, the one upside to my constant self-analysis/judgment is that I am able to stop myself when I fear I’m going too far. So… I didn’t laugh, smirk or freak out in any way. Instead I simply (and sweetly) explained that said male person to whom I am married was in a meeting. Then I assured him I was authorized to… well… authorize any repairs made in my own house.

The dryer now seems to be working fine. The repairman was actually super nice for the rest of his stay (though he is on the phone speaking in Russian as I type this, so he could be putting a curse on my head), and I think the $250 it cost to have him essentially clean a filter will be worthwhile in that I will be able to dry my clothes again. Now if only I can dry my eyes so easily going forward through the rest of this pregnancy, we’ll have really made some progress.

PS — There was no late fee applied for my missed credit card payment (see previous post). In fact, I got a really nice note back that night assuring me it would all be taken care of. So apparently, the pregnant excuse can occasionally work.