Sunday, January 29, 2006

Dying, It's All in the Timing Really

I think there's a conspiracy going around. Appliances are revolting and they're playing dead to piss us off. But no matter how much you charge up that heart cranking thinger majiger they always use in medical TV shows like ER (or my favorite Grey's Anatomy), the appliances won't come back to life.

It first happened to my friend M. last week or the week before. She's happily (at least, that's how I imagine her doing laundry, smiling, maybe humming show tunes, dreaming of White Christmases and puppies) putting her freshly washed load of clothes in the dryer, when her dryer suddenly decides that this relationship is going nowhere and decides the best way to break up with her is by dying.

Now if any of you know what it's like to wear wet jeans, you know that it's really crappy timing on her dryer's part. I mean, poor M. having to wear wet clothes for like a week. That just sucks ass.

Then, yesterday morning, in a rare incident that occurs once a millenium, I decided that our house was way too dirty. First I swept, then I dusted, then I polished our wood furniture, then I cleaned the bedroom and finally put away in my closet the bridesmaid dress that had been laying on top of our dresser since the wedding I was in on October 8th. Then, I spread the whole house with that powder stuff that you put on carpet so that people think your house is cleaner than it is. And once Baby Boy woke up, Sweetie Pie went to work on vacuuming all that powder and the colony of pet hair that permanently resides in our carpet.

He starts with the living room, and within two minutes, the place looks like it could be a model home. And then he moves on to our bedroom, where the vacuum cleaner decides that it's time to join the union, because really these working conditions with four pets who all shed like crazy are just abysmal. And so our vacuum cleaner begins to smoke. Not cigarettes, he's not union yet, so he doesn't get cigarette breaks, he starts smoking out of what I determined to be his butt.

Smoke is, I wouldn't say billowing but it was coming at a steady pacy, out of our vacuum cleaner. We gave it five minutes to cool off, think things over. But each time we'd turn him back on, it was "hey look at me, I'm smoking bitch, now step away from me."

And so I went to Consumer Reports' Web site to see which vacuum cleaner was the best for us to buy (which by the way, it's not the Dyson and it's capability of sucking 10,000 times the force of gravity. The Dyson models did really crappy! From Consumer Reports' ratings, looked like they couldn't suck a breadcrumb out of your hand, let alone the moon of its gravitational pull) and then I ordered it from Walmart.com so that I could get the 10 bucks in Upromise dollars for Baby Boy's College fund. Hey, just because we're buying appliances doesn't mean we shouldn't think of the future.

So anyway, during the seven to 10 days it takes Walmart by my house to receive our brand new Hoover vacuum, we are stuck in a house that has a whole box full of Arm & Hammer carpet deodorizer in it.

Except for our living room and Baby Boy's room (which I hadn't put powder in, since it only recently started being used and I was worried about potential allergy issues), our whole room is an asthmatic's worst nightmare. Thanks vacuum cleaner for picking just the right time to die. Don't expect flowers from me you prick.

Love,

Catwoman.

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