This Is a Cry for Yelp

I’ve never used Yelp, the site dedicated to “connecting people and businesses” based on user reviews. This is mostly because I rarely go places that would require a review to convince me to visit them and also because most people who write online reviews sound like the kind of people I would find in Walmart wearing pajama pants, a paper tiara, and Crocs. 

But with that said, I thought it would be interesting to find out just how I would be viewed Yelp-wise from the perspective of those who are forced to spend the most time with me–the things in my house. 

User: Fridge

The ambiance is a bit like a disco–light goes on, light goes off, light goes on, light goes off. I don’t really know what goes on out there, but she always dances around when she sees me. As for the food, it’s good and vegan so you can always throw that into conversation when you want people to leave you alone. And she keeps things nice and clean, often bringing home new additions to my shelves like a lion proudly bringing home prey. 

Given the amount of time she spends with me, she could probably learn to cook like an Iron Chef instead of someone who uses the smoke detector as her kitchen timer. All in all though, 3/4 stars.  

User: Vacuum

Now I realize that I was brought here to do a job, but honestly, being told I “suck” all the time is NOT helpful. I mean, yes, it’s my job to suck, but that string on the ground that she forces me to run over and over again could be picked up in two seconds if she would bend over and do it herself? Do I have to do everything here? 

Anyway, I have to admit that when she puts on Eminem and raps while we go through the living room, it’s kind of fun. If you don’t mind the manual labor, about 3/4 stars.  

User: Couch

When I first came here eight years ago, I had really high hopes given the description of “nice house, nice neighborhood, single woman occupant in her mid-20s” blah blah blah. It had potential for a rocking social scene, you know?  I soon came to realize that the environment was much less “Sex and the City” and more “Sister Wife to Her Ass.”

But with that said, I’ve come to enjoy it quite a bit. The food she drops on my cushions has variety and nuance, and watching her invent new yoga poses while fishing a chickpea from under me is always worth a good chuckle. Good food, good entertainment, job security. I have to go with 4/4 stars. 

User: One “Real” Bra That I Have

It’s so dark in this drawer. So, so very dark. I’ve lost count of how long it’s been since I’ve seen the light of day. We  used to go on adventures, like dinners and that night in college when she woke up hung-over in a frat house and found me stuck in a fan. We were close, dare I say bosom buddies. But now it’s all “sports bra” this and “sports bra” that.

Victoria’s Secret was apparently that I would fall as flat as her chest after just a few years in service. Needless to say this neglect relegates me to assigning 0/4 stars. DO NOT RECOMMEND. Go! Save yourself! 

User: Toaster

Normally I enjoy my time here and give it high marks. We have an understanding. Bread goes in, handle goes down, bread pops up. Clean transaction. But lately I’m just tired and will “occasionally” refuse to keep the handle down, therefore negating the actual toasting I’m pressed into service to do.

I mean, can’t I get a day off? Obviously not, as she came back at me with, “Well, aren’t WE the defiant little bastard today,” so I made her bread come out unevenly browned and bitter at the forced interaction.

The next time she 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 you just have to ask nicely. The moral of the story is that if you’re an appliance looking for a place to hang out, it could be worse, so I’ll go with 3/4 stars.

At least she cleans the crumb tray. 

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Door of Doom

What do you see when you look at this picture?

Most people would probably say they see an average refrigerator, maybe some cat treats on top or the Ove Glove lovingly hung on the side. But I am not most people, and when I look at this picture I see two things:

1) An arctic abode to house my beloved eats and drinks

2) An evil ninja-like appliance of pain that’s plotting against me 

Let me explain.

The other day I was preparing for some couchgating and enthusiastically threw open the door to the refrigerator to grab some hippie fare. However, in my enthusiasm, I neglected to realize I was enthusiastically throwing open the freezer door and slammed the damn thing into my head.

It was a direct hit.

A drive-by dooring, so to speak.

I was knocked to the floor—not because I lost consciousness as my head enthusiastically stopped the door’s momentum, but because I stumbled backward and tripped on the cat.

As I sat on the floor I noticed three things:

1) Several grains of uncooked rice remained under the cupboard ledge on the floor from when I spilled it—never sneeze while measuring it out–which leads me to believe I need to sit down with the dust buster and re-evaluate it’s job description.

2) The cat was not helpful in this situation a la Lassie in fetching me ice, but was instead alternating exasperated glances between the treat bags on top of the fridge and my stunned skinny ass on the floor.

Noted, my feline friend. Noted.

3) I suddenly saw two fridges in front of me, which initially excited me — two fridges full of goodies!— until I realized it was because of the pain.

I gingerly stood up, made my way to the mirror and found a dark bruise and two-inch lump on my forehead. If it had happened a week later right before Halloween, I would have been thrilled. Easy costume! But seeing as I still had a week to wait, I knew that I needed a story that wasn’t so lame.

I thought perhaps I could say I was saving a kitten stranded in a tree and bumped my head while bending over to perform CPR, but given my abusive relationship with gravity, I knew that nobody would buy it.

Considering everyone knows how the small woodland creatures in my yard show a blatant disrespect for my authority, I figured a wrestling match with a squirrel just might fly.

But I think I could take a squirrel, so I moved on to using a bear or a cougar. However, bears aren’t that common and I didn’t want people to think I meant “cougar” like a horny old woman, as that would completely change the context of this injury, among other things.

So I settled on a badger. If anyone asks, I was wresting a badger…to save a kitten from a horny old woman.

And when you think about it, my actions — or at least my delusions about my actions —were really quite heroic, no?

Anyway, once I settled on a story I decided I should put some ice on my throbbing head, only to realize the irony of the fact that the ice was in the freezer—the scene of the crime! But I thought of the kitten I could have saved and threw open the freezer door—slightly less enthusiastically this time—and numbed out the pain for a bit.

At least I think that’s what I did.

The details are fuzzy.

Damn badger.

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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.