My new version of hell.

My washing machine is broken.

It's a front loader and the latch that keeps the door shut just sort of fell out. The door won't close at all now, making any attempt at turning it on just a lark to see how much water could really build up on the laundry room floor. Could there be Slip'n'Slide potential? Probably not, so we haven't tried it.

The repairman came out last Tuesday to fix it but said that he had to order a part. He figured he'd get it by Thursday and he could be back on Friday to fix my machine and restore order to the universe.

It is now Tuesday and when I followed up, the dispatcher informed me that he wasn't even sure the part had been ordered yet. Yay! Way to hustle, guys.

So I have a two-year-old -- a two-year-old who likes to occasionally whizz on the bathmat and throw up milk on non-Stain-guarded fabric surfaces, not to mention just get outside and get his clothes generally filthy and muddy -- but no washer. And 10 days makes a whole lot of laundry even when he's on his best behavior. I thought the kid had more clothes than any other kid on the block (the benefit of having 7 grandmothers) but we still have piles and piles of dirty clothes all over the house. And this morning, when I realized that all of his t-shirts are dirty, I ignored the college student that lives in me who said to just head to the PX to buy him a few more shirts before school (I might have listened if the PX opened before 10am) and instead channeled my inner Mom and spot-treated a t-shirt that didn't stink too bad and put it on him a little damp. Hey, it's raining today. Who is going to notice?

But thank goodness the Munchkin is still in diapers. Because we have a serious underwear shortage around here. After searching everywhere, I realized that the only clean panties in this house are my old maternity thongs. And since I was just heading out for a run, I figured how bad could it be? Sure, they are a little big and stretched out but I'm only going out to exercise. It would definitely be more prudent to throw one of those on than to go commando.

Wrong. Oh, I was so, so wrong.

My new version of hell is to come home from a 5 mile hilly run with one side a maternity thong hanging down around my left knee, with chafage that does not need to be discussed in detail, only to be greeted by a great big stinky pile of laundry in the foyer, topped with day-old milk vomit on a bedspread (Note: rinsing the chunks off the fabric did not do much for the smell).

Time to call the Maytag man again. And keep calling until they make that part magically appear.

And in the meantime, off to the laundry mat.