My House is Mocking Me

Alternate title: Appliance Defiance

I’m don’t mean to sound paranoid, but I’m pretty sure my house is plotting against me.

Without a lot of fanfare, certain things have been staging a slow but steady protest, and I can’t help but feel like there’s some clandestine plot that is sure to be exposed in the near future.

I miss baseball so very, very much.

It began one average day when my non-stick pans up and refused to stop not sticking. As I stood over the stove trying to scrape scrambled eggs off with my spatula while the damn pan considered its job description, I realized that it wasn’t just the pans.

They were my first clue, but then there was the light above my bathroom vanity that has taken to flashing back to the ‘70s with strobe lights whenever I don’t  turn the dial to the precise location. All the way? Let there be light. A little bit off? Let there be a disco dance party.

Shortly thereafter, the dust buster went passive aggressive on me, pushing dust around the room instead of actually sucking (busting?) it up.

“Oh, you wanted ME to pick that up? Well, I never….”

Even though at times it would be easier to bend over and physically pick up a string or piece of dirt myself, I refuse. It will bust the dust if it’s the last thing I make it do, which given the potential plot against me, it may very well be.

Then there’s the toaster, a simple standby that has served me well. We have an understanding. Bread goes in, handle goes down, bread pops up. Clean transaction. But lately it has taken to refusing to keep the handle down, therefore negating the actual toasting it is pressed into service to do.

The first time I stood there pushing the damn handle down with a passion reserved for the dysfunctional dust buster, possibly muttering something along the lines of, “Well, aren’t WE the defiant little bastard today” until my bread came out unevenly browned and bitter at the forced interaction.

The next time I decided to try a different approach with, “Yes, take your time. I’ll just hold the handle down while you decide what you’d like to do with this bread.” That worked a bit better—sometimes I don’t even have to ask it nicely—but now the crumb tray refuses to stay securely fastened to the bottom.

This goes to prove my point that the toaster and the dust buster are completely in cahoots.

The weather stripping on my door fell off, the thing you push down to plug the sink in my main bathroom broke and every time I accidentally hit the switch for the garbage disposal instead of the light above my sink, it’s like my own private Nam—and I do this at least once a week.

On top of everything else, I’m thinking the surprise arrival of the avocado cutter earlier this month is simply the next step in their plan.

And each time one of my bastard appliances acts out for attention, it’s simply another reminder that I never got to register at Williams Sonoma for a $400 toaster or a newlywed non-stick pan collection. First the old people mock me, now it’s my house.

Well you know what, spastic ice maker that will randomly turn on and spit out squares without me telling you to? I’m on to you guys, and I’m a confident and capable single woman. Try as you might, I won’t be mocked or intimidated in my own home.

Unless you’re the garbage disposal.

Then all bets are off.