Appliances are like celebrities; they die in threes. We have mourned two losses in the last week and are awaiting the third casualty. The shower died Sunday morning, and the dryer crapped out Monday. We are taking bets on which appliance will be next. The washing machine? How about the water heater or the dishwasher? Heaven help me if it’s the dishwasher. I have a gag reflex that’s so sensitive I can almost puke on demand, and I don’t do well with food floaties in dishwater. I can scrub toilets all day long, but wash dishes with lettuce and noodles floating in it? I’d rather juggle snapping turtles.
I’M betting on the washing machine. It’s the oldest thing in the house next to Hubby, and it’s sounding a little squeaky on the spin cycle, which I have pretended not to notice in recent weeks. The squeaking that is, not Hubby. We’ve already had one disaster with that washing machine a few years ago which resulted in oil all over the laundry room walls, so a relapse isn’t out of the question.
Being a home owner means staying in a constant state of despair…I mean repairs. Something always needs fixing. Most of the time it’s something routine, but it always costs money. Sometimes it’s something major, and when it is, it seems like the hits keep comin’ until you’ve racked up a trifecta of big purchases. Right now, I have two problems: 1. I have already spent my money on the new house and 2. I’m no longer interested in spending money on the old house. Once we decided to buy the new house, I lost all interest in doing anything to spruce up the old one. The old one is pretty much move-in ready for the next owner, so it doesn’t need much. And even though I still sleep there and park my butt in front of the TV occasionally, psychologically, I’ve moved on. I’m done with the old house. Finished. Over it. As in we could use some time apart, let’s just be friends and here’s your ring back. I’m just not into it anymore. It’s kind of like when Papa T. turned 75 and declared that he was done with all routine preventive tests like colonoscopies because he just didn’t think it was worth the expense, time and trouble. I don’t want to spend one more dime on the old house, but the appliance gods aren’t listening. Every time I turn around, something breaks.
I promised God last Friday that I’d quit swearing, and I think I heard him cackle out loud. Sunday morning, the handle on the shower screamed, “Psyche!” and refused to turn when Teen Angel got into the shower. In fact, the whole dadgum mechanism that controls the water and the water temperature broke apart. Hello plumber. Goodbye wallet. *#@%! The following night I came home to find a load of clothes that had been tumbling in a cold dryer for two hours. Upon investigation it was determined that it had indeed joined the shower in the category of Things That Make Hula Reach for the Margarita Mix. Double *#@%!! It had been on life support for weeks, and we knew it was terminal so it was no surprise. After uttering the serenity prayer, clicking my heels together three times and saying, “There’s no place like Lowe's,” I declared the dryer dead. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out and a pox on your family, twenty year old gas dryer. But instead of heading to Lowe's for a replacement, I said, “Whoa, Nelly.” Not because I didn’t want to go to Lowe's, because goodness knows I haven’t been there in at least three days, but because I refuse to buy a new dryer when we are about to move. The new house has a dryer. A beautiful, shiny front loading lusty babe that is just waiting for us to spin her cycles. I see no need in buying another one when we should be living there in about a month.
So, I did what any red blooded (does blood come in any other color) American woman does in a time of necessity. I hauled my clothes next door to Mama J.’s house and borrowed her dryer, which is my plan for the next few weeks. If I get desperate, I may purchase a really cheap dryer at the used appliance store or out of the want ads, but I’m spending no more than $50. I’ll hang clothes on every flat surface inside and around the house, which is why you’ll find Hubby’s underwear on the deck rail during the month of October. And I’m being extra gentle with the dishwasher because I refuse to buy one of those either, and the thought of noodle floaties scares me more than hanging my drawers on the yard lights.
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