 Our new house has a fancypants washer/dryer combination. They talk to each other.
So, when I open the dryer, its screen lights up and wakes up the washer’s screen for a chat. They’re supposed to be communicating about the type and amount of clothing that’s moving from the washer to the dryer. “Be careful! They’re delicates.” I think that’s crap. The washer is probably saying, “Can you believe she forgot this load overnight? It smells very slightly of mildew.” Or, “She overloaded again. You’re going to bust a nut tumbling this set.” Or, “Holy crap, does she wash a lot of small pink stuff.” It’s not my fault. I have three girls. Society makes them wear pink. And tells them to change their clothes multiple times each day. None of us can change. But the machines needn't taunt me about it.
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I blog rarely, because I'm writing books. When I do blog, I focus on writing, friendship, family, and books. Because my family's best nicknames are private, I use their birth years for shorthand:
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