Read Online Planting Dandelions by Kyran Pittman - Free Book Online

socks and underwear is a quarter of a load.
    One Saturday afternoon our washing machine got through agitating a load of clothes, and then, drunk on power, decided to agitate me by refusing to drain. I twiddled the dial and pulled the knob and wiggled the basket, and then I told Patrick the situation.
    â€œHoly shit,” he said, before retreating to his office.
    I gave him a few minutes, then followed him back there.
    â€œI think it’s clogged,” I offered.
    â€œCould be,” he nodded, avoiding eye contact.
    I felt he could use a prompt, so I asked, “What needs to happen for us to find out?”
    â€œLet me think about that.”
    â€œCould you think about it quickly ?” This elicited an injured look. I ignored it. It was no time for kid gloves, and I’ve poked through all the fingers on mine anyhow. My husband is a man of innumerable charms and gifts, but being quickly roused to action is not one of them. “Let me think about that” is usually a euphemism for “Let me not think about that for as long as it can possibly be put off.”
    It’s bad enough we are two NFPs, but he has to go and complicate it by being an introvert. That means his brain has four stomachs. All information has to be chewed twice before he can digest it. I am an extrovert. I think fast and out loud. I process verbally. My opinions develop on the scene, and are revised constantly. I’m like the twenty-four-hour news cycle, complete with screen crawl. Becoming educated about these differences has helped us navigate through many a minefield of potential misunderstanding. He has learned that the words “talk” and “later” uttered in the same sentence will cause me to chew my own leg off. I have learned that the deer-in-the-headlights stare I get in response to “Hey, let’s . . .” is not necessarily an out-of-hand rejection. Sometimes, if I stand back and give him a little air, he will come around on his own. Occasionally, I have to bring out the smelling salts.
    In this instance, time was not on our side. The laundry clock was ticking. Towels were being used, clothes worn. I needed a specific commitment. I extracted a promise of “first thing in the morning.” Morning came, and with it, low groans and complaints of a bad back. Toward lunchtime, I was directed to clear off the top of the appliances and bail out the wash water so he could examine the patient. It was a transparent stalling maneuver, but I prepped as told.
    â€œIt’s ready for you,” I announced, thirty minutes later. He pointed to a sandwich on his desk.
    â€œI have to eat lunch,” he said, resolutely, as if the union was behind him. He lifted a potato chip to his mouth, took a bite from it, chewed it one hundred times, put it down, lifted the sandwich to his mouth, took a bite from it, chewed it one hundred times, put it down, and reached for the rest of the first chip. He did all of this in slow motion, like it was his last meal. If I kept watching, it would be, so I returned to the operating theater and pulled the washer out from the wall. I sized up the hose and pipe attachments in back. How hard could this be? I Googled “washing machine clogged drain,” and scrolled through a bunch of do-it-yourself forums. Piece of cake. By the time Patrick moseyed into the kitchen for cookies, I was wedged between the wall and washer, trying to loosen a hose connector by hand.
    â€œAre you sure you don’t want me to do that?” he offered, peering down over the control panel.
    â€œNot on your life,” I grunted. By my reckoning, I was sitting on a gold mine of spousal guilt. Having missed his moment to save the day, Patrick would be driven to overcompensate in other matters of household maintenance. His masculine pride was on the line.
    Apparently not. “I find this incredibly sexy, you know,” he said, handing me a wrench and leering, as I squatted in the