I think it's pretty much common sense that hairdryers are for drying hair. I mean, the name practically negates any confusion, right?
Well, SOMEONE PLEASE TELL THIS TO MY HUSBAND.
If Jerry could tuck my hairdryer away in his toolbox and get away with it, I'm pretty sure he would. Because, to him, the hairdryer is a much more useful apparatus than its name denotes. I mean, just think of all the possibilities! Heating your boxers so they're toasty warm on a cold winter morning. Spill water on the couch and know your wife is going to freak? No problem!
But the coup de grace came when we asked to borrow a carpet steamer from my sister-in-law. Jerry took care of everything while I was at work, and I came home to a sopping wet carpet. And when I say "sopping wet," I'm really not exaggerating. A marine animal easily could've survived off the water in between the threads. If the square-footage was a little bigger, we could've invited a killer whale to stay in the guest bedroom.
Apparently Jerry didn't know that you had to switch the vacuum from "spray" mode to "suck" mode and go over the same spot a few times to pull the water back up. I guess he assumed that the machine was smart enough to do everything at once.
So, long story short, we ended up with a carpet that squished if you dared to walk on it. And if you were in socks, they absorbed enough to look like you had stepped directly into a swimming pool.
Unfortunately, the guest room is the one room upstairs without a ceiling fan. We tried tossing down every towel in the house and stomping on them furiously, but all that did was create a lot of dirty laundry. The carpet was still reminiscent of something that got caught unexpectedly in a torrential downpour.
And, to make matters worse, we had guests coming in two days.
The first day we did nothing. We assumed 24 hours would dramatically improve the situation.
It didn't. Shamu still would've felt right at home.
I was absolutely freaking out, but Jerry remained calm. He told me not to worry about it. He told me the carpet would be dry by the time I got home from work.
In hindsight, I should've asked how. As in, "How, exactly, do you plan on making that room inhabitable after every other reasonable attempt has failed?"
But I didn't ask. I desperately wanted to believe him.
And when I got home that night, he partially kept his word. One small corner of the carpet was perfectly and suspiciously dry. The corner nearest an electrical outlet.
He had used my hairdryer.
And, ladies, I know I don't have to tell you that hairdryers are sort of a necessity -- particularly in the winter. And I know I don't have to tell you that a good hairdryer isn't a cheap piece of equipment. I also know that I don't have to tell you what happens if you use a hairdryer for an extended period of time on its highest heat setting.
Yup, he pretty much burned it out. Either his wrist got tired from trying to dry the carpet. Or maybe the cord wouldn't reach any further. Or maybe he noticed the funny burnt smell that it started emitting. Or maybe it was because the air flow was reduced to a wheeze.
Either way, he put the dryer back in its spot in our vanity and pretended like nothing happened.
Only, the next morning, I figured it out.
And, ironically, when my parents came to visit the next day, my mother didn't pack her hairdryer, knowing she could use mine. And right as she was lamenting how I needed to buy a new one immediately because "one of these days it's just not going to work and you'll be sorry," it didn't turn on.
It died right then and there. When both of us had hair as wet as the carpet had been. And, sure, it's funny now, but if Jerry hadn't been at work, we would've strangled him with the fried hairdryer cord.
The good news is that I think he's learned his lesson.
And for all the other men out there, let this be a lesson to you. Raise your right hand and repeat after me: "Hairdryers are for drying hair."
My work is done here.