Sunday, January 23, 2011

Press Here to Start

I did my laundry yesterday. Usually, I time my trips home to align with my laundry-needs just so I don't have to shell out the THREE DOLLARS per load down here. But I couldn't get home this week. And I had to do my laundry. So I put in my two separate loads: $1.25 per wash = $2.50 for both.
...right?

Then it was time to dry. And it's one whole dollar to dry a load for half an hour. Since most of my things are line dried, I thought I could mix the two loads and fit into one wash. Somehow, I thought this would save me money. I don't know why, exactly. I knew all that wet laundry wouldn't finish in one turn. But it made sense in my head, so I did it.

I put the four quarters in, pushed it in, saw the light flash and walked away.

An hour later, came back, felt my clothes--they weren't even done being damp. So I grudgingly put another dollar in.

Another hour, same thing. And another dollar.

I was getting pretty irritated, ranting about my apartment complex trying to destroy my life and suck me dry with their tricked-up dryers. It was a huge conspiracy with only one goal in sight, and that was to ruin my Saturday.

It was about 8 pm and I was punching Melissa in the arm to take out my frustration. So I borrowed (read: stole) a dollar from her and went off in a huff, screaming that if it wasn't done and I had to shell out another dollar, I would light something on fire.

Well, it wasn't done. I did my crazed angry laugh, where it sounds relatively happy, and I started mumbling to the dryer, putting in another set of quarters. And it was then, bent over the dryer, that I noticed an odd, little white button just above the flashing light that read...ahem*, "Push to Start."

Oops.

Looking around in shame, I pressed it. Sure enough--BOOM. It started tumbling and I ran away laughing. I couldn't stop laughing, I couldn't even tell Melissa, I was so embarrassed and just cracking up over ice cream.

That stupid, little button.

In my defense, the words were hidden by said button when one was standing instead of kneeling right in front of it. And the light did flash whenever I put in the quarters, so I thought it would be on. And the whole wall rumbled because every other one was on, so I thought I felt mine.

But, really, I was just stupid. And it was hilarious.

Except for the fact that I shelled out...
one, two, three, FOUR dollars 
on just drying my clothes. 

Even so, I still giggle. 

Monday, January 3, 2011

It Burns!!

There is a massive pile of cookies in my kitchen. They are rock-solid. As in you could probably build a house out of them. Or a bridge, even. Or at least use them as tiny weapons that could cause great harm to the unsuspecting souls passing by. "Hey, free COOKIES sucka'!!"--they wouldn't even see it coming

But you get the picture: they were hard.

Now, there is a simple secret to eating hard cookies. You just nuke them. You stick them in the microwave and heat 'em for ten seconds--donut style. And then it's just like they're fresh out of the oven and a joy to eat.

Well, not these bad boys.

I stuck one in the microwave, desperate for something sweet. Ten seconds later, it was on fire.

Okay, okay--it wasn't literally on fire. But close. It was charred. Smoldering. Literally smoking and wheezing and sputtering. Completely alive and dangerous. It smelt so bad, like rotten eggs burnt in a pan for hours. I opened the microwave door in a panic, but I couldn't touch it. Half of it was black, sizzling and screaming, spouting off hot smoke. I pulled it out and threw it into the trashcan. But it was still burning and I was scared it would catch fire and we would all die. From a cookie catastrophe. So I doused it with water. It hissed at me--literally. It gave off steam and dared me just try and destroy it. So I doused it again. Three times, I smothered it with water; three times, it seared, it's heat never seeming to dissipate. It seemed to be a battle of wills and I was losing. To a charred cookie. Eventually, I managed to bury it's angry wheeze with a couple of wet paper towels. They were my saviors, my heroes; they died for good, and I will never forget that.

Needless to say, I didn't eat it. Nor did I try another one. No, that alarmingly-large pile of cookies has and will remained untouched. And the stench of that evil one hangs rancid in the air, an aroma that won't die. But I have a plan: tonight I shall make true cookies--real, lovely, obedient, normal chocolate cookies that will never put up such a fuss.

And if they do, I shall destroy them.