Tumble Dryer Quotes

I wish the dryer were running, because man, I could use a good...tumble dry."-Eve Rosser

I like to see cats tumble around, but I wish they wouldn’t meow so much when I shove them in the dryer.

A new beginning done right," she said out loud, because everyone knew that saying it out loud made it true. "You hear that, karma?" She glanced upward through her slightly leaky sunroof into a dark sky, where storm clouds tumbled together like a dryer full of gray wool blankets. "This time, I'm gong to be strong." Like Katharine Hepburn. Like Ingrid Bergman ."So go torture someone else and leave me alone." A bolt of lightning blinded her, followed by a boom of thunder that nearly had her jerking out of her skin. "Okay, so I meant pretty please leave me alone." -Maddie

The launderette, you say? Hmm. Delightful as a career manning the tumble dryers sounds, I think I’ll stick with songwriting for a bit longer.

Up and down lost all meaning. Her world became a violent tumble-dryer, an endless, crashing kaleidoscope.

Shouldn't death , I thought, be a swandive, graceful, white-winged and smooth, leaving the surface undisturbed? Blue jeans tumbled in the dryer.

In my experience, unless experiences are honestly expressed to the right person it’s like throwing biscuits into a tumble dryer.

When the body dies, where will they go, those migrant birds and prayer calls, as heat from sheets when taken from a dryer? With voices of the ones I loved, great loves and small loves, train wheels, crickets, clock-ticks, thunder – where will they, when in fragrant, tumbled heat they also leave?

My right foot hits the ground first, but my left one's gone AWOL, and I'm cartwheeling, my body mapped by local explosions of pain -- ankle, knee, elbow -- shit, my left ski's gone, whipped off, vamoosed -- ground-woods-sky, ground-woods-sky ground-woods-sky, a faceful of gravelly snow; dice in a tumbler; apples in a tumble dryer, a grunt, a groan, a plea, a shiiiiiiiiit ... [ ... ] Gravity, velocity, and the ground; stopping is going to cost a fortune and the only acceptable currency is pain.

The rover was not so lucky. It continued tumbling down the hill, bouncing the traveler around like clothes in a dryer. After twenty meters, the soft powder gave way to more solid sand and the rover shuddered to a halt. It had come to rest on its side. The valves leading to the now- missing hoses had detected the sudden pressure drop and closed. The pressure seal was not breached. The traveler was alive, for now.

Yes, Cabbage: prison diplomacy. It’s called offering the newcomer a very warm welcome. You can tell Mares that I made lots of friends at two in the morning on the first night and continued making friends in the back of the laundry room and if I didn’t make friends there they would shove me into an industrial tumble-dryer and spin me around a few times until I was dizzy enough to make lots of friends at the same time.

The thoughts continue to tumble in my mind like clothes in a dryer.

disgust, by a hatred of everything: this apartment, this washing machine, this still-filthy sink, these toys that have escaped their boxes and crawled under the tables to die, the sword pointed at the sky, the dangling ear. She will be Louise, Louise pushing her fingers in her ears to stop the shouting and the crying. Louise who goes back and forth from the bedroom to the kitchen, from the bathroom to the kitchen, from the trash to the tumble dryer, from the bed to the cupboard in the entrance hall, from the balcony to the bathroom. Louise who comes back and then starts again, Louise who bends down and stands on tiptoe. Louise who takes a knife from a cupboard. Louise who drinks a glass of wine, the window open, one foot resting on the little balcony. “Come on, children. Time to take a bath.

But Wolfheart freezes in the middle of the movement. Between him and the blood covered man stands a woman who looks so small and frail that the wind should be able to pass right through her ...Every ounce of her seems to be yelling at her to run for her life. But she stays where she is, staring at Wolfheart with the resolute gaze of someone who has nothing left to lose. She rolls up the tumble-dryer fluff in the palm of one hand and clasps her hands over her stomach; then looks at with determination at Wolfheart and says with complete authority: "We don't beat people to death in this leaseholders' association.

One time," Kavi started, and I pinched the bridge of my nose before the story even got going, "when I was little I told my brother that he should get in the tumble dryer and we'd turn it one and see what happened and then my mam founded me trying to help him in, you know like stuffing his limbs in there, and she almost had a heart attack and started screaming that appliances are not for people and then she told my brother to get out of the tumble dryer and never go in there again, but when he tried to get out again he was stuck and we has to call the fire brigade to cut him out of it. then we didn't have a tumble dryer for ages but now we have one that's a washing machine and a tumble dryer in one.

That’s a bit careless. Who was looking after them?’ ‘You were,’ sighed Finefellow. She drew a breath before reeling off the list. ‘Agents Fifteen and Sixteen have run off to open a florists together; Agent Twenty-Six has been trampled on by a herd of stampeding buffalo and Agent Nine got her scarf caught in a tumble-dryer … whilst she was still wearing it!

If done properly, successful investing entertains as much as watching clothes tumble in the dryer window. Always remember that the more exciting a given stock or asset class is, the more likely it is to be over-owned, overpriced, and destined for low future returns.

She brushes a lock of hair back from her face and winces when she tugs through a snag. “Oh, my gosh. I must look like I’ve been tumbled in a dryer, right? Is it bad?” She starts to sweep through her hair and her hand sticks in another knot. “You wouldn’t happen to have a brush, would you? Crap,” she swears as she encounters a huge snarl. “Wait,” I say. “I’ll get it.” I start to work through the tangle with my fingers and she sits still while I work out every last one. When I’m done, her hair is silky and smooth and I am not ready to stop running my fingers through it, but I probably should. “Don’t stop,” she says quietly. “That feels really good.” She pulls her feet from the water. “Wait,” she says, and she adjusts so that she’s lying over my lap. “You don’t mind, do you?” Hell, at this point, I’d be sad if she made me stop. “It’s fine,” I tell her. She relaxes against me and says, “Talk to me, will you?” Her eyes close and I’m pretty sure if she got any more relaxed, she’d fall asleep. My insides settle in a way they never have before. Usually, I have a roiling, boiling sensation in my chest, like something is fighting to get out of me and I must work to contain it at all times. But now… Now I am at peace. My soul and my heart connect like tumblers lining up in a lock. Snap! It opens up. And it scares the hell out of me. I pull my hands from her hair, thinking that her proximity is the problem. But the tumblers don’t realign. They don’t lock her out. They let her in. They invite her in and offer her a fucking apple pie so she’ll sit and stay for a while. “Are you all right?” she asks. “Why wouldn’t I be?” “You stopped rubbing my hair.” I lift her off my lap and set her beside me. “All the tangles are out.” “Oh.” She sighs. “That’s good.” She suddenly looks uncomfortable and it kills me that I caused it. “Thank you for fixing my hair,” she says quietly.

The annual power use per person for tumble dryers is three times greater than for washing machines... opt for a smart way to air-dry your clothes.

You can smash a snow globe with a ball-peen hammer and be disappointed that the glass is actually plastic and the snow actually ground-up Styrofoam. • You can laminate anything by winding it in plastic wrap before a five-minute tumble on Cotton in the dryer. • You can microwave a lightbulb for nearly twenty beautiful seconds as it turns in there like a pink comet before it finally goes supernova. • You can safely remove your Helmet and whack your head repeatedly on the drywall, weaving an orange velvet into your vision, before you manage to leave a dent. • You can cover a wall dent by hanging a masterpiece over it and claiming that you need the work at eye level to properly appreciate it. • You can simulate immortality by sticking a rubberhandled flathead screwdriver directly into the outlet and only trip a breaker. • You can ride the laundry basket down the carpeted stairs like a mine cart four times until it catches and ejects you to the bottom, where you strike your elbow and it swells red as a hot-water bottle. • You can safely light the fluff on your sweatpants with a barbecue lighter and send flame rolling over your legs like poured blue water, leaving a crispy black stubble. • You can halt a fan if you thrust your hand into the blades bravely—only when you hesitate will your knuckles be rapped. • You can stick the chilly steel tube of the vacuum to your belly and generate a hideous yet painless bruise, and these pulsating circles when placed carefully can form an Olympic symbol that lasts well into a second week. Of course his mother’s catching wind of any of

The nearest one came to a tumble dryer was if the laundry basket was dropped on the way to the washing-line and then the whole lot went tumbling down the drive.

I turn my gaped mouth away from Kate and look down the tree lined street, with parked cars on both sides and room for one line of traffic down the middle. That’s not what’s bothering me, though. It’s the vicious, black, rubber speed humps dotted every twenty yards that have my attention. Oh God, I’m going to be tossed about like a penny in a tumble dryer.

Hayley sits up, and she’s absolutely adorable with her hair sticking out in all sorts of directions. She looks like she’s been tumbled in a dryer. Her cheeks are pink, and her eyes are bright and shiny. She is all things beautiful and innocent, all wrapped in one adorable little package. I can’t help but wonder if I was ever that naive, that trusting. Probably not.

Problems tangle up like clothes in a tumble dryer.

Intuition is science. It is what happens when the brain sees two or more incongruous details and a narrative in the subconscious cannot be established. We pause before crossing a road and barely avoid getting killed by a motorcycle, or take the stairs rather than sharing a lift with a stranger who turns out to have murdered a nun. The story told afterwards is that a mystical force from the future sent a warning in the form of a feeling. Fear as foresight. We believe we are in tune with the transcendent. But this is bullshit. The only truth is that each sense is alive to narratives where pieces are missing, and we are very good at filling in the gaps. So. I know why I turned to examine the long nylon bag rather than chucking the laundry into the tumble dryer and leaving. But it was only after I touched the bag that I consciously spotted the Christmas tree in pieces by the garage door, its branches arranged at odd angles. My peripheral vision must have clocked the tree and sent a signal: something is out of place.

Life is always full of worries and struggles, losses and disappointments, late-night googling of bizarre symptoms—all tumbling endlessly over one another like clothes in the dryer. It’s not like any of us ever gets to a place where we’ve solved everything forever and we never have another problem.

Then I scamper down to the laundry room and yank open the dryer door. Kay’s mountain of school sweatshirts tumbles out, along with my breeches. But I can’t find my white button-down anywhere in the pile. I sift through the sweatshirts again, tossing them haphazardly in the laundry basket. Still no white shirt. I reach my hand deep into the far corner of the dryer and pull out the only thing that’s left, a purple tie-dyed shirt. Huh, I don’t remember Kay having any purple tie-dyed shirts . . . Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh nooooo. The purple pen must have fallen out of Luis’s jacket pocket while I was putting the clothes in the washer last night! And then exploded in the dryer! All over my white button-down! Which also seems to be several sizes smaller than it was last night. Did I mention this is not good? Oh noooooooooo!

One by one, she took her tumbling thoughts from the dryer, ironed them, folded them, and put them away.

I think it’ll happen on Christmas Day,” Emma said at lunch one day. “In the middle of the Queen’s Speech. She’ll be sitting there, all smart in her pearls and whatnot, and then the screen will start shaking, like they’ve put Buckingham Palace in a tumble dryer. There’ll be corgis flying about, footmen screaming—

At St. George, with darkness just creeping up behind them, the sun out in front of them floating downward toward the broken line of hills to the west, they stopped to refuel, again giving Manville no opportunity to make a move unseen. Beyond St. George, with a great bruised sunset burning its way down the sky, the chauffeur squinting and ducking his head behind his dark glasses, the farms of the Darling Downs petered out, giving way to herds of grazing sheep and cattle, none of whom paid any attention in the gathering darkness to the occasional passage of headlights out on the road. The land looked dryer here, reaching away in brown folds, like a tumbled blanket. At the small settlement of Bollen, they turned left again, onto a much smaller and more twisty road, climbing into dry hills. They passed Murra Murra, barely a dozen lights in the blackness, and then turned off onto an unmarked dirt road that twisted up into the dark, posting back and forth, detouring around the hillocks. They drove past groups of shaggy-coated cattle that blinked in their headlights and shuffled slowly out of their way, bumping their shoulders together as they went. They drove on for three or four miles, over rolling open country, the Daimler taking the terrain like a good powerboat on a moderate sea, and then all at once they crested a rise and a bowl of lights appeared before them, down a farther hill, like a wide low glass jar full