No Pants! Time to be a Feminist

I hate to scare you.

I really do.

But there is someone out there with a voodoo dryer right now.

And he is attacking our washroom.

We have been cursed.

We have gone through 3 dryers in the last year.

Long story, no one cares. So here's the point.

So my hubby is putting in the third dryer.

The clothes are "done" and they're not dry.

"We have a problem!" my hubby yells from down stairs."The clothes are still not dry."

"Okay. Fix it," I yell back.

"Ooookkkkaaaay." His voice is slightly annoyed at my obvious genius.

But apparently, it's not obvious enough!

The dryer is still not working.

So my female mind begins to take over. Mostly because I've run out of Glade Plug-ins and my house smells like week old laundry. No, not like, it IS week old laundry, halfway dried.

So last night was his second night of attempting to fix it.

He announces, "It's a piece of crap. I tried to fix it. It blows the breaker every time!"

"I have an idea! Why don't you call our friend who's an electrician and ask him. I bet he might know what's up?" ('cause you don't, and my pants smell.)

"Well, I think I have an idea of what it is. It's hooked up wrong. I'll get it."

"Okay, I hope you like women with stinky pants," I added in.

"I'll fix it."

"Okay, I hope you know that clothes began to mold after a few days."

"I know."

"Okay, I hope you know that tomorrow I'm out of underwear."

"Yikes!"

I knew I could get him somehow.

However, not enough to convince him to call for help.

So this morning, I wake up, and try to find clothes. Go to the laundry room, climb over the mountain of stinky-ness (soon to be the mountain of mold) and try to find something to wear.

Think. Think. Think.

What to do?

Resent him, call him and yell, or do the unthinkable.

Call for help when he's at work?

Can I? Should I?

You bet!

So I'm going to insult my hubby's manliness. I'm going to call for help.

Why? How could I? What type of monster am I?

Well, to be honest, a stinky one.

I can't sit around and wait for him to become a certified electrician. I'm not dragging my clothes to a laundry mat. I live out in the middle of nowhere, my kids will probably vandalize the place, and my blog will turn into crime confession rather than relationship issues.

That's not good.

Laundry mats are powerful places, I know.

But here is the lesson I've learned.

I can wait, be annoyed, smell like a dead animal, and nag him.

Or I can stop being a victim of his ego. Call for help and when he gets annoyed, let him know that I didn't marry him because of his handyman abilities. If that were true, we would have divorced years ago (might leave that part out).

I will remind him he has other good qualities, none of which include fixing things.

I'm sure he will understand.

If not, at least he'll smell good.

I'M A FEMINIST WITHOUT PANTS. I HAVE NO CHOICE.