Dear Mr. Dryer

Dear Mr. Dryer,

First of all, allow me to say that you are a fabulous machine. You and your kind have done wonders for me and my kind. For that, I thank you.

But now I must pick a bone with you.

It's an expression. It mean we've got problems, you and I.

The thing is, you are a dryer. A DRYer.

Runners run. Timers time. Bakers bake.



They dry. This is the wonderful cause you were born to fulfill. Wet things become dry within you! No clothes, towels, or even shoes can withstand your heated tossing that leads to wonderful, wearable DRYNESS.

And this should all happen quickly. I should be able to run you for one cycle - one brief 45 minute-ish interval - and everything you hold within your cavern of drying power should be (say it with me) dry.

Let me break it down for you: WET. ONE CYCLE. DRY.

Let's just try to remember that, shall we?

And remember this as well: those lint traps don't clean themselves.

I believe I've made myself perfectly clear.

Pregnant Katie
Pregnant Katie Who Is Often Very Tired
Pregnant Katie Who Is Often Too Tired to take 8 Hours to do Laundry
Pregnant Katie Who Is Often Too Tired to take 8 Hours to do Laundry and Is Frequently Armed with a Baseball Bat

P.S. You are noisy. Anything we could do about that?

UPDATE: So I wrote this post last night. This morning, Dallin tells me that he FIXED THE DRYER after I went to bed last night. Without being asked. Without even being complained to. The "Twilight Zone" theme song echoed through the room.

I'm not saying the universe somehow absorbed my written-but-unpublished thoughts and then passed them on to my husband.

All I'm saying is that I'm writing "Dear Mr. Kitchen Who Doesn't Clean Himself" right now.