“Fall”ing Apart

One of my kitchen chairs has developed a wobble. Just a little one. We use it when we have to, but we know to sit at the edge.

And most visitors have discovered that the roll-away screen door will snap violently open when you touch it – sometimes when you just look at it – shaking the house and our nerves.

These things are easily ignored during the year but suddenly start screaming at me when I’m about to have guests nonstop for the next two months.

Hmm.

The water dispenser in the fridge no longer dispenses water. I thought at first it was because the freezer recently froze the ice dispenser parts closed, but no, the valve simply decided one morning to either dispense water whether we were standing there wanting a drink or not, or refusing service point blank when we were standing there. Wanting a drink.

I thought it was pretty uncool when half of my kitchen lights refused to light up last month. Only half. The parts by the sink give enough ambiance to wash dishes by (the moon outside the window does what it can) but the nether parts either flicker in migraine-inducing staccato or lie there dead. It’s not about the bulbs. It’s the shattery covers that scare us.

My million-dollar dishwasher only operates on one of it’s fancy computer-chipped programs. When I put it on “normal”, it runs for three minutes exactly and then displays an error code: 9E. As in, “I’m nine-y years old. Gimme a break.”

It’s three years old and I can prove it because the little old man who sold us this money pit house thought it was a major selling point.

His wife pulled me aside during escrow and whispered, “I hate it.”

You know who’s side I’m on, right?

And now the kitchen faucet has a teensy little leak, right at the handle.

Hubby doesn’t believe me.

It only leaks when I’m home alone and staring it down.

And this is only the kitchen.

The clothes dryer cheerfully ran a load of towels yesterday. Without heat. Because spinning things in little circles will accomplish stuff. Ask any two-year-old.

Our big, beautiful front doors? The thumb-latch just fell out. Two months ago. The little front door leprechaun who’s been holding it together in there, just died of old age. Do we buy all new handles? Do we just buy new doors? Where can we get another leprechaun?

Three days ago Hubby had a very interesting phone conversation with our internet provider.

Hubby: “The problem seems to be…that your internet isn’t working.”

Responsible Party: “Sir, can you give me the serial numbers on your modem?”

Hubby: “Yes. BMR854L3,8HW”

(Silence) (faint snorting): “Thank you, Sir. Sir, how old is your modem?”

Hubby: (frowny face) “I’m not sure. I don’t have the receipt.”

Responsible Party After Pulling it Together: “Thank you, Sir. From what I can understand, you have been paying for our highest speed service but channeling it through a modem that can only process one-eighth of it. Perhaps your modem is the problem?”

Hubby ran out and immediately fixed the twenty-years-in-the-making situation.

Our priorities seem to be in order.

Frankly, I’m doing the only sensible, helpful thing.

I’m buying new couches.

All of my girlfriends are laughing at me, not because they don’t know this is the indisputable solution, but because they have heard me say this for a long time…and they have never known me to have new couches.

May I here refer you to the first blog I ever wrote. (Yes, when you see blue words in my blogs and click your mouse over them, it tele-ports you into another one of my stories to which I am referring. Yes, you can come back and finish this story, too. No worries.)

If I buy new couches, our old couches can go into the den and the bed in there can move into the upstairs bedroom and I can replace the twins with a queen (here it is again, pay attention) and then I’m putting the new dining set into the kitchen (bye-bye wobbly chair) so my new couches have some breathing room because we are going to have heaps of people over in the next two months.

And Hubby will notice that things, they are a-changin’.

And fix stuff.

Obvs.

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