Our dining room is consumed by laundry. I wish this were a fluke, but the dining room table often doubles as a folding space. More accurately the table is where the folded clothes live. They vacation in our drawers and clothes. This week it’s much much worse because our dryer has turned on us. The long slow betrayal began a few months ago when the dryer barfed up one its baffles, or rotors, or whatever the things that stick out and keep the laundry moving around the inside of the dryer are called. We pulled the piece out, looking to see if we could reattach it, but reattaching it would require temoving the whole cylinder of the dryer. There was no way for a mere civilian to put it back in there. We threw a tennis ball in there to keep the items spinning. Problem solved. Huzzah. Laundry dreams continue. Until the next baffle-rotor-thing popped off 2 months later. Now we had to be very very strategic about the items in each load with only one baffle spinning the clothes. No more than two towels in a load. No blankets. It worked well enough until the other day when the cat vomited all over one of the beds. The last baffle flew off when the down comforter (stop judging PETA members, it’s a drafty old house!) had to be laundered. Now anything that gets washed must be hung to dry until at least next Monday when a repair professional will be dispatched to install new parts. There are drying items hanging all over this house. All. Over. The. House. I can’t close the bathroom door because a pair of pants is hanging off the doorway holding the door ajar. I’m peeing in public in my own house. The dried underwear now feels crispy -like my skin after a day at the beach – when I fold it. The pockets of pants take longer to dry than the rest of the pants, so it’s been an unpleasant, moist surprise to put my hands into my pockets this week. I know it could be worse, it could always be worse, but I miss the fluff and fold that I once knew.