Due to Extenuating Circumstances

The Traitor in my Living Room (coming soon to Lifetime TV)

As we master the feeding and care of Baby we discover something unsettling about our little house at the bottom of the hill, the house I have always loved because we re-did everything ourselves. The floors we put in, the custom shelving Mac built, the shed he built that looks just like a mini version of our house, every square inch I painted (and repainted and re-repainted. I really love painting). We discovered that our appliances are sentient, and what’s more they are jealous little bastards.

It started with Washer. We have always thought of our clothes washer as a loyal and appreciated servant. He has his own room, which he shares with his life partner Mr. Dryer. Once the baby showed up we were doing laundry more than ever, especially for occasions when we did not wish to be seen sporting the White Badge of Courage on each shoulder. Washer staged a revolt and didn’t even give us warning. One day the spin cycle went awry, and by awry I mean batshit. It wasn’t just a balance problem, it sounded like we had Tommy Lee playing inside our washing machine. We called repair and they were delighted to tell us the broken part was so far inside the mechanism of the washer it would cost more to repair than replace. So we apologized to Washer, promised to make his life easier, and now we can only spin clothes on the “hang dry” setting. We had been saving up to replace him (Mr. Dryer will be delighted with a younger, sexier model anyway) BUT…

Our dishwasher is a traitorous piece of shit. D.W. heard Washer was getting all the attention and completely quit washing dishes. Overnight we had crud everywhere. It was a Vesuvius of food crud every time we washed dishes. So, because I am not a smart woman, I Googled “fix your dishwasher.” Now, to Mac’s credit, he did exactly what it said to do. It turned out the problem was 16 straight years of running Very Hard water through it. We cleaned out hard water deposits so thick they looked like sticks of chalk.

In the end, though, cleaning it wasn’t the problem. It was 16 years old, which is 112 in Cheap, Crappy Dishwasher land. Between Washer, who could still be coaxed into phoning in a terrible performance, and D.W. who was laying in pieces around our kitchen, there was no choice. We had to go to [NAME BRAND APPLIANCE STORE WHERE WE HAVE A CREDIT CARD] and put a new dishwasher on credit. We didn’t have a choice. All of our cash has been eaten up with stupid stuff like sinus surgery for my husband, whose nose was so blocked even the surgeon was surprised Mac could sleep, and abdominal surgery for myself, because every two years or so my abdomen demands attention because it was unloved as a child.

So, cashless, with a clothes washer on the fritz, a treasonous dishwasher to replace plus Baby eating more formula in a day than some babies do all week… I did the dumbest thing I have ever done. I told Mac we needed to make sure we budget the next few months well so we can handle our finances like the adults we want others to believe we are.

I said this in the living room.

The next day, I am NOT making this up and furthermore I would NEVER misuse “I’m not making this up” as it is my homage to one of the greatest humor columnists of all time (Dave Barry), the NEXT DAY OUR TV DIED. In the middle of “Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt” our TV did breakable. It was a Christmas present for Mac and it didn’t even last 2 years. I was so mad I wanted to throw it, but I couldn’t because of my attention-whore abdomen. So I cried. Like, for three days. And that’s when it hit me: the household goods can smell my weakness. The fear that one of them will break must come through my pores, like alcohol or really cheap kimchi.

Therefore, I’m saying this out loud, in my living room, as I am typing in boldfaced letters so even my computer knows I AM NOT FUCKING AROUND HERE:

WE BOUGHT YOU, WE OWN YOU, AND WE ARE NOT AFRAID OF YOU. YOUR FATE RESTS ENTIRELY IN YOUR OWN HANDS, I AM NOT AFRAID TO THROW YOUR UNDER-PERFORMING, LAZY OR BROKEN ASS TO THE CURB. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

If this doesn’t work, do one of you have a washer we can use on the weekends? — SIB