Binding the Beast, Demonology Part II

I gambled it all last night, and I hooked up the washing machine. David, you're right. I do love the little beast, but I have to admit that I haven't washed anything in it.

In hindsight, I feel like a retard which really isn't all that unusual. The way that I obsessed about hooking up the beast, the anxiety I wallowed in, and the loathing I felt are absurd. But, I can only say that because the damn thing seems to work. Remember that "simple" hooking up the bathroom sink job we did for Christmas? I do. It was not pretty. Why should this be any different?

I read the instructions about a dozen times before I even touched the thing. I connected the water lines, flushed the lines, connected them to the washer, set up the drain pipe and leveled the beast. Leveling it was actually the hardest part. It alone probably accounted for fifty percent of the time I spent on this project. So far, so good.

Then I plugged it in, flipped the breaker on line, set it on "delicates," and pushed start. I was so nervous that my stomach vaguely entertained the ultimate drama, puking.

No, I didn't load it with clothes or soap the first time out. Cleaning up water is bad enough. Soapy water all over the wood floors? No thank you. And, over the next thirty minutes, I anxiously watched it whirl and slosh its way through the cycle. Everything seems to work just fine, a sure sign something must be terribly wrong. Then, it was over. No puddles, geysers, fires, explosions, or malicious supernatural phenomenon.

Wow.

And, this morning as I got ready for work, I checked it again. Still no laundry room disasters.

Tonight, I'm going to go crazy with it. The question I must now wrestle with is, "whites or colored?"