This would have been the day I set out on foot to explore my new neighborhood, if it hadn't rained steadily all day. It's not one of those rainstorms with the big Midwestern drops that you can almost dodge while you walk. No, this is that fine spray that soaks through your clothes and into your skin and hair as soon as you walk out the door. It's the rain that fogs up your glasses and soaks your socks and chills your bones, until you want nothing more than to be wrapped in a warm robe, sitting in front of a blazing fireplace. On your chaise longue, of course.
So I did laundry instead. It was the first load I've done in my new-used washer, and I found myself bouncing out of the chair to check on it every few minutes. I called Mom twice to ask her what the machine was doing. Once I plunged my hands into the water to make sure nothing was stuck, because the agitator had stopped agitating. (Apparently it's supposed to do that at some point during the cycle.)
Until today I didn't know (or care) how many places there are inside a dryer for lint to accumulate. There's the lint screen, of course, but when you take that out to clean it, you find a whole lint village, a lint Brigadoon, in the hazy heather below. And the more you shove your arm inside the barrel of the dryer, the more lint you're likely to come out with. In the door of the machine, I found lint hiding in all the nooks and crannies (well, just the nooks, really; I don't believe there were any appreciable crannies).
The dryer sits against an inside wall in the garage, and it vents into a little alcove. (As do I at times.) At some point, I'm sure, I'll be sweeping up lint from there, too.