A few years back, I had a bit of appliance bad luck. We’re talking BAD.
Like the appliance apocalypse.
Loosely defined, that’s when you start to believe your house was built over the grave of an appliance god’s temple, or that aliens are planning an invasion and your appliance failures are early warning signs. (I have a lot of time to dream up very elaborate things to worry about.)
I think it all started with a washing machine dying, and soon after, pretty much anything with a chord or a battery seemed to bite the bullet. Ever had an expensive string of luck like that? You wonder when it will ever end. Why it’s happening to you. How you will ever pay it off. And if aliens are attacking, why they don’t just get it over with before the toaster dies, too.
So when I walked into the kitchen the other morning and found the dishwasher had conked out — soap ran down the inside of the door like it had screamed, “Forget this!” mid-cycle — I had flashbacks. I panicked. I glanced nervously around my kitchen while grumbling, “Yeah! Well, who’s next, traitors?”
It was not my proudest 6 a.m. moment.
Truth is, I didn’t want to believe my dishwasher could be having a problem. First off, it’s not that old, it’s a very good brand and it seemed downright rude to die. I figured there had to a simple explanation. Isn’t there always a simple explanation? You just need to cajole the appliance (“Now, now, did you have a bad day? Tell me about your problems”) or come up with a simple, common sense solution to fix it (“Honey, you’re probably not closing the door right. You have to be firm, but compassionate.”)
I fully expect these things to work. Maybe we just loaded one too many forks! It got off balance. It had ADD.
But it’s never so simple. And when it dawns on me there’s a real problem — that a repairman must become involved — I inevitably start to look around and wonder, who’s next? What else is lurking? True to form, the house phone started having problems the same morning.
“A-HA!” I screamed. “I knew we were cursed! Time to sell the house and buy a cave.”
Appliance breakdowns never come alone. They come in threes. Or six packs. Or a baker’s dozen. Isn’t that the rule?
So I’m on guard. Panicked. Waiting for the next appliance to drop. I don’t trust anyone, or anything. I’m gentle when I use the microwave, and I say, “Good morning, how are you?” to the TV as I walk through the living room.
I’m also alerting the Pentagon that an alien invasion might be coming. I’ll know for sure if the phone acts up again, or my toast starts to burn.