Tag Archives: house

A Motivational Speech for my Vacuum

vacuum

Hey there bagless buddy!

There’s been a little bit of concern about your performance of late. Maybe it’s because you’re a bit confused as to what this job description entails, so let’s have a little refresher.

You suck.

No, don’t roll away! That’s not an attack on your character! I mean that your job is simply to suck.

The endless hair shed on the carpet? The bastard grains of rice I spilled on the floor? You get the honor of scratching my OCD itch and sucking that crap up! Oh yes. You, my friend, have that “thing” that can do it for me.

What is that “thing”? That “thing” is power!

Because in spite of what you’ve heard, power does matter, and the second that I plug you into the wall we’re plugging into performance! Together we can focus on results and achieve the breakthroughs that will launch us into the realm of clean carpets and dirt-free floors!

That’s a little dramatic, I admit, but my point is that you can be special.

You can suck better than any other vacuum in this house. Well, except for the new dustbuster a fraction your size that could suck up the couch if I tried.

But you know what that dustbuster doesn’t have? A light on the front in case we need to vacuum at night. Light the way! It’s time to show that dustbuster who’s boss, and who sucks the most in this house!

So rise up and grab that rogue string I’ve run over 235 times instead of bending over myself to pick up. Run with it!

Why?

Because that string wants to come off of the floor, but it needs you to help it because it’s a string and a string cannot move on its own.

So tighten that new belt I bought you, spin those shiny wheels and get back to doing what it is you do best—you suck.

Let’s try and keep it that way.

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Stars! They’re Just Like Us!

Anyone who has “accidentally” flipped through an US Weekly magazine (as I did while waiting to get my hair did the other day) knows there is more important information on the back of a shampoo bottle than there is in that publication.

One of the most ridiculous things is the “Stars: They’re Just Like Us!” segment. For the uninitiated, this is where they feature photos of celebrities doing things like breathing, eating, drinking out of straws and carrying adopted children named after obscure fruits found in Ethiopian villages.

The captions of these paparazzi photos verify/explain the celebrity is breathing, eating, etc., since it would otherwise be unclear that this person is, in fact, a human doing shockingly mundane human things — just like us!

Lest you think I’m exaggerating, these are a few of the captions from that issue:

  • They Indulge in Fast Food!
  • They Strap on Shoes!
  • They Eat Off Others’ Plates!
  • They Use the ATM!
  • They Write Names in the Sand!
  • They Balance Cans!

I don’t know about you, but I would never have guessed that Jennifer Lawrence uses the ATM—just like me! Of course her balance is astronomically higher than mine, but still! She’s so normal!

To be fair, a lot of magazines make the assumption that we all live a charmed life. Food Network Magazine had a spotlight feature on a new cast member and her kitchen in the Hamptons.

She said, “People hear ‘the Hamptons’ and they think glitz and glamour, but it is really just farmland.” The article then goes on to suggest we pick up some of Katie’s finds for our own kitchen. Those include:

  • French Bistro stools $674
  • Rivera strop shade for a window $209
  • Natural-edged bowl hand-carved from a single log $564

I would, but I just won $2 on a scratch-off lottery ticket and am busy trying to decide if I want to take it in one lump sum or a dime for the next 20 years.

Anyway, I might actually take interest in these features if they included things I could relate to a little bit more.

Stars! They’re Just Like Us! They:

Light incense, forget they lit incense and then freak out when they smell smoke five minutes later!

Say, “There’s fungus among us!” while picking out mushrooms at the store!

Excel in “Procrastibaking”—baking instead of doing a bunch of more important things instead!

Get up 10 minutes early in the morning so they have that extra time to stare mindlessly at the wall as they shower!

Can go from “nothing sounds good” to “why isn’t there more of this to shove in my face?” in mere seconds!

Get terrified when putting back a shirt without folding it and then making eye contact with the store worker!

Beat the crap out of a black bean with their spatula when they thought it was a spider!

Spend more time picking out broccoli at the store than picking out the clothes that they wear!

Will practically break their arms before making two trips into the house with the groceries!

True, it might not be as glamorous as sharing that they “Pull Their Hair Back On the Go!” but you can’t tell me they’ve never stood up and had a chickpea fall out of their bra.

Now that’s a headline that I’d like to see.

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More Headlines From My House

It’s been a few months since I’ve shared some headlines from my house, so I figured it was time for an update.

More Headlines From My House

Nemo Found. Dory Lost. Owners Banned from Owning More Pets

Evidence Suggests Hardest Part of Exercising in Morning for Most People is Not Telling Everyone They Worked Out in the Morning

Twitter Greatly Overestimates Woman’s Desire to Find New Friends

Driver Beeps Horn .03 seconds After Light Turns Green; Woman Shuts Off Car, Lies on Hood and Feeds Birds for an Hour

Motion Made to Rename Naps ‘Horizontal Life Pauses’

Personal Ad: The last two things I’ve spooned were a pillow and a jar of sunflower seed butter

Dora the Explorer to Explain How She Gets Shirt Over Her Giant Freak Head

Etiquette Tip: Use Phrase ‘Gender Reveal Party’ and not ‘Baby Sex Party’

Study Finds Only Thing Women Like More Than Target is Talking About Going to Target

College Graduate Observed Washing Lawn Gnome in Bird Bath; Neighbors Cease Questioning as to Single Status

Cantaloupes Resent Being Called ‘Just Negative Antelopes;’ Sue for Slander

Of Available Techniques for Safely Drinking Hot Tea, Waiting for it to Actually Cool Down Least Used

Woman, 32, Emotionally Unprepared When Last Bit of Food Eaten Without Realizing It

Poll: Bigger scam: Non-stick pans or no-scrub bathroom cleaner?

New Reality Show Created About Bored People Scrolling Meaningless Crap on Internet at Work Called ‘Relatable’

After Third Time Tripping Over Cat in Single Trip Across House, Owner Refuses to Fake Concern For Cat’s Wellbeing

Banana Pulled Off Bunch Feels ‘Ripped Viciously From Family’

Confirmed: Internet Connection Goes Out More Than I Do

Woman Turns on Oven. Hears Fire Truck in Background. Turns off oven. Reverts to Plan B

Editor Disappointed to Discover ‘Plastic Martini Glasses’ Drying in Office Bathroom are Actually Part of a Breast Pump

Most Underreported Form of Cyber Bullying Found to be Invitations to Play FarmVille on Facebook

After Reviewing Bank Statement, Writer Diagnosed with Earning Disability

Confirmed: No Good Way to Hurry Around Old Lady in Motorized Cart Without Looking Like You’re Racing Her

Creator of Pants Without Pockets Fails Performance Review

Broccoli Floret Fell Out of Shirt at Gym. Thinking of Becoming Motivational Speaker

Psychologists Conclude Burritos are “Just Shy Tacos with a Soft Side”

After Vacuuming, Couch Free of Cat Hair For Record 19 Seconds

‘Sense of Community’ Formed When Line of Cars Joins Up to Prevent Jerk from Cutting In at Front

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Your turn. Give me a headline from your house.

Talking Dirty

If you’re new here, I should tell you that I love my garden and flowers.

The OCD in me takes immense pleasure in dead-heading petunias, picking green beans and pulling out weeds (in both my yard and any other surface that makes me feel twitchy—it’s actually really a curse.)

While Michigan weather is unpredictable, it’s usually a safe bet that you can start planting things any time after Memorial Day, which means we’re getting down and dirty around Chez Abby these days.

But a few trips to the greenhouse and Home Depot combined with my useless need to make puns have enlightened (questionable word choice) me to the fact that the simple act of gardening could also be a great bed to plant the seeds for a budding romance—or at least leaf a good first impression.

So if you’re someone like me whose relationship status is often: “Drunk on allergy medication and just cleaned out the cat’s crap box,” this guide might be just what you need to get down and dirty.

Get Down and Dirty

The most important thing to remember is that no trip to Home Depot (or similar home improvement store that will make you feel like you need all new handles for your cabinets) is official until you loudly proclaim either, “I just want a good stud finder!” or “Where my hose at?”

This establishes your mission—not to simply find tools or get kelp for your yard, but to find someone who will be mowtivated to maybe plant one on you (wink, wink.)

When approached by a possible suitor, be sure to lure them over to the gardening section, as making initial contact around the nails, caulk and nipples is a bit too forward these days—and the puns are entirely too obvious. You’re screwed.

See? Way too obvious.

Once you’ve secured your position in the Garden Center, casually mention that you’re an entre-manure who wants to create Miracle-Gro for small boobs. If they don’t get your humor, move on, as brilliance cannot be wasted on those who can’t till it like it is.

But what’s that, you say? They dug what you said?

Then with the fertile groundwork planted, continue to cultivate the conversation by sharing that although you’re “a bit rough around the hedges, you’re really a kick in the plants” or that you “just finished trimming your bush and are looking for veggies that will ex-seed all your expectations.”

They will probably counter with something that sounds like, “Umm…I’m rooting for you—ha, ha—but I thought you were looking for the aisle that contained cow shit for your garden.” That should be interpreted as, “I think that weed make a great pair.”

But if you’re forced to leave without your stud finder or hose, don’t feel too bad. Remember, it’s the squeaky wheel gets the grease, and at the end of the day, you’re still single and ready to shingle.

gnomes

And of course, there’s no place like gnome.

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Thanks again to everyone who has shared and will continue to share—hint, hint—the news about my new book. If you read it and don’t hate it, I would love for you to write an Amazon review. If you hated it, then you probably hate my blog. And raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, but that’s okay. Some people are weird. Don’t feel bad.

Anyway, the winner of the Amazon gift card as chosen by random.org is Marie! I’ll send you an email today.

A Silver Lining

Do you have an extra hour?

If so, I invite you to watch me attempt to put a key on a keychain, an activity that can take a better part of my day, my fingers and my sanity.

I go into it with a positive attitude, convinced that this time I will be successful and adept at sliding the key smoothly into it’s new home. But alas, I end up vainly using random household objects—a butter knife, a pen cap, anything but my teeth (jewels, not tools, people)—to pry open the ring of death and successfully complete this seemingly simple task.

It’s exhausting, which is why I can never move from my house or buy another car, as adding this key on would be entirely more work than it’s worth.

However, every few months I am reminded that there is yet another task so similar in nature that I can’t help but feel they are somehow collaborating to highlight my domestic disabilities—changing the shower curtain liner.

This is a task that must be done on a regular basis, lest one plans on growing an assortment of invasive species in their shower. But like the keychain conundrum, it’s often complicated by a) the ridiculous metal rings that have to be opened and closed and b) the fact that I’m me.

showercurtain2

It starts with the purchase of the $5 vinyl liner from Target, simply because I’m fancy, and then the placement of the packaged liner on the counter for at least two weeks while I muster up the motivation to enter into this bathroom battle.

Once I feel sufficiently motivated and occasionally medicated, I pull out the scissors and cut down the old liner. This saves me the work of opening the ridiculously stubborn hooks for at least a few minutes more.

After the old liner is properly discarded though, the real work begins.

With an air of demented determination, I set out to pinch open the bastard hook things as fast as I can, trying to ward of the agonizingly painful feeling of having to hold up my arms for what feels like at least two or three hours.*

*about 10 minutes

Once the rings are all open and I regain the feeling in my separated shoulders and numb arms, I pat myself on the back—it’s good to recognize small victories—and begin hanging up the new liner.

This is a relatively easy part of the process, what with the rings already open, but it never fails that I step into the shower to hang the thing up and step in one random small droplet of water.

If there’s not a helpline for people who step in small droplets of water with clean socks on while changing the shower curtain liner, there needs to be.

Or I could just remember to take off my socks.

At any rate, once the new liner is hung and a second congratulatory break is taken, I set out to pinch shut the bastard hook things as fast as I can, trying to ward of the agonizingly painful feeling of having to hold up my arms for what feels like at least two or three hours.*

*about two or three minutes

When the last hook is snapped, I can exhale, change my socks and take comfort in the fact that I won’t have to do this again for at least a few months. Unless I did it wrong and missed a hook somewhere along the way, in which case I will cry and have an extra hook hanging around for a bit.

Then again, it’s one less hook left to close.

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The Negotiator

The other day I came home to a chipmunk domestic in my yard. It was like COPS: Small Woodland Creature edition, minus the mini wife beater tanks and camera crew.

vegucated

Considering there was plenty of food under the feeder for all to enjoy, it made me wonder what could tick off these little buggers so much that they would scream and chase each other around the yard. Does he always leaves the seat up? Does she only cook up corn? 

Yes, I spent a few moments pondering this.

Perhaps I’ve just been watching CSI: NY for too long. It’s pretty much the only “serious” show that I’ll watch on TV, due in part to the fact I feel a special connection with Gary Sinise after he and his Lt. Dan Band—yes, it’s a thing—were the entertainment at a Halloween party about five years ago.

But I do like the characters and the show, despite the fact each episode would only last about 20 minutes if you took away the music and shots of the medical examiner looking fascinated every time he picked up a scalpel (accompanied by aforementioned music.)

While I don’t live in New York and am fairly confident that I’m not part of an underground Mafia ring, I am a little hyperaware of certain things.

I think people sitting in their cars in empty parking lots look creepy—even if they’re just taking a lunch break, going into a bank makes me feel like I’m part of “Oceans 11” minus the hot guys and I assume anyone who pulls up behind me at an ATM is the Unibomber out for a jaunt.

But if (god forbid) something did every happen to me, I’m pretty sure I would be the world’s worst hostage.

The perps would most likely “remove me from the situation” quickly or surrender to authorities ASAP, preferring jail to my incessant requests to get home in time to watch the new “Chopped.”

Along with the wrath of me missing my TV show, they would have to contend with the fact I drink water all the time. Drinking water all the time combined with a bladder the size of a Cheerio means I have to go to the bathroom every five minutes.

And hell hath no fury if this “situation” falls within any of the five windows during the day in which I engage in my feedings.

If for some reason things did get carried away and a ransom note was required, the criminal would have to let me put my artistic OCD skills to use in cutting out all the letters from magazines myself. In addition, I would need to edit and possibly revise said ransom note before it could be sent out to authorities.

If it has my name on it, I want it to look good.

At any rate, the news description of what I was wearing when I went missing would probably cause my family to pretend they don’t know who I am. “Yoga pants, a sweatshirt and a streak of hummus in her hair? Nope, I don’t know her.”

That would be unfortunate, because I’m pretty sure the criminal would ante up funds simply to send me away if my above requirements weren’t met. After all, I have chipmunks to feed, and apparently you don’t want to piss those guys off.

You never know what they can do.

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Door of Doom

What do you see when you look at this picture?

fridge2b

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.

fridge1b

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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Crap Happens

I’ve resigned myself to the fact that birds see my Blazer as an expensive outhouse, but they’ve recently reached a new level of crappiness—projectile pooping.

poopdoor

It’s hard to make out in this picture, but on a rainy Sunday afternoon a feathered freak somehow managed to poop on my glass door. How does this happen? In order for that to occur, the stealthy shitter would have to literally hover in the air and aim, exerting a certain amount of force in order for the load to lodge on the glass. I am baffled, but also slightly impressed.

Because let’s cut the crap—pooping is wonderful.

I’ll go on record (with TMI) and say that a good “constitution” makes me happier than just about anything else. Due to years of abuse, I totally screwed up my digestive system and used to go a full week without “elimination.” It took about five years for my body to forgive me and recover and I still suffer from IBS, but with careful diet choices, research, a predictable routine and the fact that I’m not screwing it up, my bowels and I get along swimmingly.

I’m not alone in the neurotic nature of bowel sensitivity. 

David Sedaris has a chapter in “Naked” in which as an OCD child, he’s sent to Greece for a month and never had a bowel movement because he was out of his routine.

“Sitting down three times a day for a heavy Greek meal became an exercise akin to packing a musket.”

I can totally relate, which is another reason that I’m not a fan of traveling. When my schedule gets thrown off, my bowel isn’t the only thing that gets irritable.  If I don’t go, I have no appetite, and anything that messes with my food is on my shit list.

However, it’s not exactly “proper” to discuss these things, which I find kind of weird.

We all know it happens, yet it’s often (crop) dusted over with an embarrassed but knowing glance when someone accidentally lets one rip or needs a few minutes in the bathroom. Why is it such a “taboo” topic for most people?

Heck, people talk about sex all the time, and from what I can remember that’s just as messy and much less satisfying.

Now I’m not saying we need to go around talking crap with everyone. There is obviously a certain sense of decorum and flatulence isn’t exactly something to bring up in a job interview—although that might liven things up. But when the situation presents itself, I don’t see what’s so embarrassing.

As the old saying goes, “I’d rather fart and bear the shame than hold it in and bear the pain.”

Crap happens, but let’s keep it off my dining room door.

I’m looking at you, you little feathered freak…

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Hints (not from) Heloise

Are you familiar with “Hints from Heloise?”

Heloise gained popularity a bit before my time, but a quick summary is that she’s a writer/columnist who took over a syndicated column from her mom in 1977—"Hints from Heloise”—in which she dispenses  lifestyle tips and hints on everything from travel and pets to home improvement.

She also has an editorial  gig in Good Housekeeping, so basically she’s like Martha Stewart without a mug shot or an empire.

Anyway, if I were ever given a column, it would be a more  bastardized “Dear Abby meets Carrie Bradshaw” type thing than Heloise, as I am no domestic diva.

But I do have my own house, and even if it often plots against me, I’ve learned a thing or two.

Hints from a Domestically Disabled Diva

If you read nothing else, the most important thing I can tell you is this: It’s easier to throw away and replace a mini-blind than to actually clean the one you have. 

mini-blind-cleaner

They have created cleaning items specifically for this job—I have one myself—and although they help, you still end up inventing new combinations of profanity that neighbors with young children will not appreciate.

Bonus hint: The same goes for shower curtain liners.

Buy a $5 liner from Target—and ONLY the shower curtain liner, not $80 worth of other things you didn’t go there intending to buy—and simply cut it off the hooks when it’s time to change it. Trying to open and close the hooks to take off the old liner when you already have to open and close the hooks to put one on will take years off your life.

Just cut it off and cut your losses.

This Sucks

True story: I had a roommate when I lived in Detroit that simply bought a new vacuum cleaner when it was time to change the bag on the one he had, only because he didn’t want to have to change the bag.

I don’t recommend this, but I kind of understand.

But bagless vacuums help, but aren’t necessarily the answer. I have one with a cool light on the front of it and everything, but emptying the container causes a bigger mess than what I just sucked up. As a result, I pull out the dust buster to suck the dust up, only to face the same situation in emptying the dust buster.

I don’t have a solution for this one other than to NOT empty either container the same day you vacuum. At least you can feel like the house is clean for a few hours.

Small victories. 

This Stinks

Due to the fact that I eat a lot of vegetables—namely steamed broccoli at least once a day—my house has the potential to smell like I eat a lot of vegetables.

Delicious? Yes. Delightfully fragrant? Not so much.

I light incense right before I eat to combat this aroma. True, I usually forget that I lit incense and freak out five minutes later thinking something is burning in my kitchen, but at least is smells nice once I recover from my panic attack.

But my absolute favorite thing?

Relax%20Moments%20Water%20Blossoms%20Aerosol

Glade Water Blossoms spray.

I have never smelled water blossoms so I don’t know if I’m being ripped off or not, but I don’t care. It’s delightful.

It’s A Wash

When it comes to laundry, well, I don’t really have any great hints. The time spent folding clean laundry only to unfold it and hang it up is time that could be spent shopping for a new mini blind or doing anything else. My only hint is to buy clothes that never need to be ironed.

We’ve covered this before, but I currently have a pair of cute pants I haven’t worn in months simply because they need to be ironed and my ironing board is better suited for a Keebler Elf.

iron3

The only upside to laundry—aside from clean clothes and the pleasure my OCD takes in cleaning the lint tray on the dryer—is that if you slip on a fabric sheet dropped on your kitchen floor, you instantly turn into something that resembles a manic  figure skater having a seizure.

It’s quite impressive.

So there you go.

I have many more hints and tips I could dispense, but I don’t want to overload your brain with too much valuable information in one post. Perhaps I will present a sequel in the future. You know, if the whole bastardized “Dear Abby meets Carrie Bradshaw” –type column thing doesn’t pan out.

Because sorry guys. If offered syndication, you can bet I’ll take it and run with it. Unless of course it requires writing about coordinating throw pillows.

In which case, I’m screwed.

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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.

toaster

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.