Liar, liar

I didn't post a blog on Friday. It was a holiday, and I was preparing for the weekend. My sister said she didn't know about the no-post-on-holidays rule. I told her they were my rules and she would just have to deal. We are so very loving toward one another.

But never fear, the past four days have given me an entire week's worth of stories, from April Fools, through the circus and Easter, to Mets opening day.

We begin with April Fools Thursday, and a story I like to call "Liar, liar." Believe me when I say I wish that was an indication that this was a joke. But nope. This really happened. First, a little background info:

1. Our basement has a laundry room.

2. We pay $50 a month for unlimited access to this laundry room.

3. Laundry is, for whatever reason, my least-done chore.

4. The dirty laundry piles-up down there in ridiculous amounts.

5. Our landlord asked us to clean it up.

6. I did not.

7. Our landlord unplugged our washer and drier.

8. I have a ten-month-old.

9. It is nearly impossible to go to the laundromat when Lily and I are home alone. I just legistically cannot get clothes and baby to and from the laundromat without a car. By the time Ryab gets home from work I am exhausted. Which leads me to Wednesday night. Plans Thursday. No clean clothes.

I got an idea. I'll hand-wash them in the sink! Which worked beautifully, I must say. Of course by the time I finished my hands were raw and cramped, but I looked at the 33 articles of clothing hanging on the rack to dry, and I was extremely proud of myself.

Thursday morning I went to the kitchen to check on Lily's teeny little clothes. They were soaking wet. Discouraged but not defeated, I picked up a pair of pants and a onesie and hung them outside on the banister. I took a shower, cleaned the house, and checked on them a few hours later.

Soaking wet.

OK, no worries, I can figure this out. I got the hair drier. Ten minutes of hand drying one pair of stretchy pants and they were no longer soaking wet! They were, however, steamy and damp, and we were supposed to leave to visit a friend in am hour. I needed a way to dry these clothes in a hurry. 

Then, inspiration struck. The microwave. I will put Lily's pants in the microwave. One minute should do it. And they're cotton, so I'm sure this is perfectly safe. Hooray, I'm a genius!

One minute later, the ding of the microwave told me it was time. So I opened the door, and was hit in the face by a combination of smoke and steam that knocked me back a few inches. (while I don't have a sense of smell, my nose still physically reacts to things like noxious fumes. I know, it's confusing. Full blog on this someday, I promise.)

Carefully, I reached into the microwave to retrieve Lily's pants. They were dry, that's for sure. So why the smoke?

Then I noticed the red embers on the waistband. They were around the edges of a giant hole right through the elastic.

Ah. The elastic. Oops.

I took the pants to the sink, ran some cold water over them while I opened a window, and tossed the pants into the trash. (after being absolutely sure, of course, that they were no longer burning.) Fortunately I was able to find a pair of jeans that I hoped were clean, (again, no sense of smell.) and I little blouse that was hanging in her closet. 

But the really funny part of this story is that this was not my first flaming-clothes-in-the-microwave story. The last time was in college, and it involved a sock full of sugar. I think I'll save that one for another day. But feel free to laugh at me.

So I learned a lesson on Thursday. Don't put the baby's pants in the microwave. Feel free to pass this message along. It's an important one, I think.