Striking

This time, it’s not the plumbing ganging up on me, it’s the appliances.

Apparently, they got together while I was in Detroit and decided to protest my absence by annoying me and/or going on a sudden, French-style strike.

The coffeemaker, previously my friend, now pees all over the counter every time I use it. I can’t find any particular reason for the incontinence, so I get to look forward to it every morning, when I am at my least tolerant (not that the level increases much throughout the day, but still). It’s as fun as listening to the mice squealing in horror and skittering away when I turn on the bathroom light. I hate the mice. I wish they’d move out and leave me alone, or become interesting prey for Rita. She never chases anything smaller than a pigeon or squirrel, but she does follow me around like I’m a giant cheeseburger when I’m trying to make dinner. Rita: she’s everywhere you want to be!

When I threw my Motown-soiled clothes into the washer, it worked fine. But when I attempted to use the dryer, it made a weird noise and then told me in no uncertain terms that it was never going to dry another damn thing, thank you very much. Now I have a dead dryer in the bathroom and damp clothes draped all over the place. I really am not good at laundry. I found a used one on Craigslist that looks good. The guy is supposed to bring it over and install it on Wednesday evening. I hope he’s not an axe murderer or anything. Maybe I should call Dial-A-Boy so I’m not alone when he gets here.

I’m not sure if the people upstairs are away, but their alarm clock isn’t. It’s been ringing for days and is pushing me closer and closer to the brink of insanity.

Oh, no! I just fell over it!

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