Underwire gone haywire

IN OUR LAST installment, the Halloween decorations were going up late and somebody’s bra was missing. I was having second doubts that family life was really for me. You know, just the usual stuff.

Since then, we have found the bra and discovered that we are the only house on the block in which the dog cusses. Not sure yet where he picked it up. Kids, probably.

“Are you sure he cussed?” I ask.

“I heard him,” the little girl says, “with my own eyes.”

In our house, we hear with our eyes, we smell with our ears, we reason with our hearts. I’m not defending it. If your house is operating flawlessly, please let me know.

“I found the bra,” my wife says.

“Thank God,” I say and flip the sports page.

Turns out that the bra -- a wispy thing, a breath of air -- disintegrated in the washing machine. Imagine a flock of doves flying innocently into a car wash, and you’ll have a pretty good idea of what happened to this bra.

Now the washing machine is making an awful scratching sound, like something angry became trapped in there.

“Pliers!” I say authoritatively.

“Somebody get your dad some pliers!” their mother hollers.

“Thanks,” I tell her.

“You’re welcome,” she says sweetly.

Now, I know nothing about washing machines. In minutes, I have the thing apart. The door is off. There is nothing wrong with the door, but I take it off anyway. While working, I notice that my fingers still smell of the onions I chopped the other night.

“You know what you’re doing, Dad?”

“Absolutely not,” I say.

“You’re sweating.”

“Here, hold this flashlight,” I say.

The dog is nearby, hoping to pick up a few new cuss words. I am determined not to play into his base expectations. At times like this, rolling around the floor on a belly full of dinner, a father is expected to curse with frustration. You know, just to keep the top of his head from blowing off. Not me.

“Fu ... dge,” I say.

“Did Dad just say ‘fudge’?” someone asks.

“Oh spit,” I say.

The culprit, I soon find, is the underwire of the bra, a tiny strip of metal wedged between the outside of the washing machine drum and its metal shell.

When you turn on the washer, there’s this scraping sound, metal against metal. You know how sometimes you put off getting your disc brakes fixed and before you know it you’re grooving the rotors and doing even more damage? That sound. Like metal against your cerebral cortex.

I have unbolted the drain pipe, and am now reaching in up to my elbow with the needle-nose pliers, grasping desperately for the underwire of a bra that was probably bought on credit. It’s like trying to snag a tiny brook trout at just the right moment. I have it, then I don’t. Then I do. Then I don’t.

The phone rings. The TV blares. The cat scratches to go out.

The microwave beeps. A shower starts. Somebody can’t find a sharp pencil.

There is a toddler in a Spider-Man costume sitting on my ankles, playing with my shoelaces, in a way that kind of tickles. The dog sniffs my ear, enjoying my salty, fatherly musk (soon to be a popular cologne). Desperate after 20 years of marriage, I consider nuzzling him back.

“Got it!” I hiss.

“You did?” says my wife.

“He did?” thinks the dog. “Who the #$%@& would’ve expected that?”

The whole place can breathe again, now that I have fixed the washing machine, our most precious appliance. Like most heroes, I am fussed over beyond reason, then quickly forgotten.

But I don’t care. I have more projects in the works. Because, obviously, store-bought bras are lacking in craftsmanship. Today’s bras are built the same way angels must be built, with compressed air and hope.

So from now on, I am making all the brassieres in our house by hand, on my workbench in the basement. You can do it too. A basic brassiere can be made with the tools found around the house, plus an acetylene torch and a blacksmith’s anvil.

Supplies include:

* 1 bulletproof police vest;

* 4 bags of Portland cement;

* 8 rebar reinforcing rods;

* 1 heavy-duty Master lock;

* A car alarm.

Note that these dad-built brassieres each weigh about 45 pounds and resemble an iron lung. But they are rugged, carry a lifetime guarantee and won’t peel apart at inopportune times. Like at prom.

The holidays will probably be our busy season. Please place your orders now.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.