Everything In Its Place....or Not

Saturday was going as planned. The kids were watering the gardens and cleaning the rabbit hutches, Tom was cheerfully sanding the kitchen cupboards, and I'd accomplished the house cleaning plus most of the laundry.

"Whew, it's hot," I muttered as I grabbed a glass of water and sat down at the kitchen table for a hydrating break.

That's when I noticed that the washing machine looked like an alien space pod signaling the Mother Ship. The almost one year old washer has never given us a moment of trouble, but today, all the little green display lights were on at the same time, forming a furiously flashing dotted circle.

"Huh? What the heck.....?" I calmly wondered, setting my glass on the table, rising from my relaxed posture, and walking closer to the washing machine.

Since our day had been perfectly Zippity Doo Da, so far, with Mr. Bluebird on my shoulder, it was in mature, relaxed pragmatism that I formed my response to this oddity, rather than assume the worst and panic.

"I will get the owner's manual, look up troubleshooting, and fix the problem. Yes, for once I won't be impulsive, but will act like a responsible adult."

In rather smug confidence, I told those in listening distance to leave the washer alone, even though it looked excited. "I'm taking care of it."

Feeling quite in control of myself, I headed for the file box in the closet where I'd recently, carefully filed every single owner's manual for every single electronic or otherwise owned-thing which required a manual.

Leaning in and over the box, I pulled out the newest looking booklets, especially the ones still in their plastic sleeves for they looked to be the most promising. A packet for the dryer came up quickly, but not the washer. "Must be close, must be close." I pulled out a few more papers. "Hmmm. Still no washing machine information." I grabbed another bunch and looked through them. I found literature for the lawn-mower, VCR, DVD, microwave, TV, the OTHER TV, two remote-control manuals, and one for the jacuzzi bath-tub.

My grown-upness was wearing thin, but I took a deep breath. "It's in there. Have patience. No regrets." I roughly grabbed as many papers as my hand would hold, which was about all that was left in the file. I sorted through them, finding it increasingly annoying that I encountered at least twenty-three different languages while trying to sort these things out. "A Verizon phone manual, the Zen water-fountain instructions, a Sevylor raft manual (do we even HAVE that anymore?), the refrigerator, the range, the dishwasher."

"Grrrr.....Did it fall behind the box?" Beginning to lose it, right on the edge of the precipice, I grabbed the shoe boxes that were in the way and flung them to the side, hurled a pair of pants over my shoulder, along with a long-lost sandal, and another shoe. "Nope, nothing back here but an old Christmas card."

Barely restrained, I tapped the the foot-high pile of manuals into a neat stack, and one by one looked at each one. "Nope, nope, nope, nope.nope.nope! Aha!" I found two pieces of washing machine literature. One had several drawings and looked to be instructions for installing the machine, the other entitled Usage and Care had instructions on how to wash clothes.

"Okay. Now calm down. Here you go." Flipping through Usage and Care told me how to remove crayon, blood, perspiration, tea, dirt, wine, and grease. Nothing about the alien pod signaling the Mother Ship. The diagnostic paper DID have a small paragraph which stated that in the event that an error code is tripped, all the display lights will blink simultaneously. Should this occur see Troubleshooting, in the Usage and Care manual. "What? Okay, stay calm, you must have missed it, but you are on the right track." No Troubleshooting section was listed in the index, so, beginning with the front cover of Usage and Care, I methodically, snottily, turned each page in slow motion, reading in fast motion, only to reach the back cover and nope, not a word about green error lights, or little green men.

Then, I glanced at the one drawing of the washer in Usage and Care: it was of our old top-loading washer. The new one is a front-loader.

"This isn't even the right book!"

My head fell, chin to chest, shoulders sagged, and I think I whimpered at this point. Twice.

I am a very logical person. I always put things where they go. "WHERE IS IT!"

Meanwhile, Mother Ship is getting closer.

Convinced that the manual was not where it belonged, completely confused, frustrated beyond sanity, no longer a grown-up, I marched to the laundry room, teeth clenched, face red, sweat dripping from my brow, fists swinging at my side.

Poor Tom. He has such bad timing. Just as I got to the washing machine, the very moment my words began vomiting from my mouth, Mr. Innocent Bystander stepped from the peaceful backyard into the doorway of hell.

"I don't know where it IS!!" I shouted, arms flailing around like a psycho-conductor. Tom, eyebrows peaked in wonder and wanting to help, stepped closer, within a couple feet of me. Because I didn't want my anger to infect him, I mercifully warned, "Personal space! Personal space! It's three times as big as normal!" He stepped back. (Bad timing, yes, but no fool.)

In sheer frustration I told him, too loudly, head shaking too much, "I'm not mad at you! I'm venting! You are a wonderful man! But I cannot find the owner's manual for the......."

Just then I remembered something from a year ago. We'd put two manuals, one for the washer, one for the dryer, in the little basket above the washer, "So we can refer to them for help, since these machines are different from any we've ever owned." In this split second, in mid-rant, my hand reached out and grabbed the two manuals sitting like little know-it-all children, halos straight, noses in the air.

"GGRRRRROOOOWWWLLLL!"

We'd had a teeny-tiny power surge from using several electrical appliances and the air compressor at once, which set off the error message. Solution? "Press Stop twice to cancel the cycle. Begin a new cycle. If the problem recurs, call our service department at 1-800-URA-MORON!"

After following the instructions, the machine worked like a charm, though the weird sounds it usually makes sounded more like mocking laughter. The Mother Ship was averted. And I had another chance to practice, practice, practice dealing with my temper.

Calmness returned to the post which it never should have abandoned.

Though ultimately I failed, I failed better.

Try, try again.....