• Is it paranoia if your appliances really are out to get you?

    “There is only one way to happiness and that is to cease worrying about things which are beyond the power of our detergent.”
    – Epictetus, Greek philosopher (AD 55 – 135) – disputed, alternate translation from the original text

    Cheryl really wanted me to write this post.

    “John, you’ve got to blog about this.”

    See, I told you.

    “Why don’t you write about it?” I replied.

    “It’s not my blog.”

    “So, I could set you up as another author. It could be our blog.”

    “But I’m not funny.”

    “Wait. You think my posts are funny?”

    “Well, not all of them. Some of them are kinda depressing, but others are a little funny.”

    “But they’re not supposed to be funny… any of them. These things are straight up.”

    “Do you have a doctor’s appointment coming up?”

    I do, as it happens, but enough of this banter. This post isn’t about me, my grand tour of medical specialties, or my beloved.

    You see that. I lied. I’m really very sorry.

    No I’m not.

    This post is about Maytag and their sinister plot to drive Cheryl crazy.

    When I think of time – specifically keeping it – I think of the Swiss. I don’t know why. I’m not an expert when it comes to clocks, watches, timers, or the Swiss. Somehow, at some point, the Swiss and reliable time keeping got stuck together in my brain.

    It’s been stuck ever since.

    When I think of Maytag I think of the man. Mind you, I’m not talking about The Man. I know Maytag isn’t keeping me down – not in the grand scheme of things anyway. No, I think of that lumpy sap from the commercials, waiting for the call that never comes. One thing that definitely doesn’t come to mind is keeping time, and our new(ish) washing machine only reinforces this disassociation.

    In many ways I’m really pleased with our new(ish) washing machine. It’s one of those nifty front loaders that uses a lot less water, and it was reasonably priced. However, it has one feature that drives Cheryl nuts: it counts down the time remaining until it’s done. By itself this wouldn’t drive Cheryl crazy, or I don’t think it would. What’s maddening is it’s last minute that isn’t a minute. You see, it taunts you. The last minute is ALWAYS much more than a minute. I know. Cheryl’s timed it. What’s particularly insidious is it’s variable schedule. Sometimes the last minute is five. Other times ten. It might go ten cycles doing eight minutes just to suck you in – then go twenty.

    There’s no other way to explain it.

    It’s evil.

  • An outing one evening

    A mother a boy and his sister all walk into an ice cream shop.

    “Do you take credit?” the mother asks.

    “No,” the man behind the counter replies.

    “You’ve GOT to be kidding me!” the boy exclaims, unintentionally doing a great John McEnroe.

    My boy has none of my shy reserve.

  • Life is like a box of Splenda

    Stuff never seems to stop coming out of that dang box. I have to say, it’s disturbingly light. What lengths do chemists go to create a substance with so little density? Anyway, I bought one three weeks ago thinking we were almost out, but the old one’s still filling tablespoons for Cheryl’s elixir of life (coffee).

    I had a similar experience this weekend. I was a mad cleaning machine Saturday morning. Cheryl was out on some errands, stressing about all the work that needed to be done around the house. So, I gave myself a good kick in the but and took the house by storm.

    Some of you may suspect ulterior motives – like a cover-up for a yet to be revealed fuck-up. Or, you may be thinking this was part of “Operation Butter-up” – a vile plot to bend will to my favor. Well to you I say, I like the way you think. But no, as hard as it is to believe, this was a selfless act – though my unconscious mind will neither confirm nor deny the allegation.

    Before I get to the meat of this post, let me first warn you: storms can be messy. They can cloud your judgement, drown your spirit, and blow away your energy reserves.

    As it happens, I have an example.

    I was cleaning the floors throughout the house, and I’d arrived in our livingroom. I knew I was going to have to shake out the rug and sweep the floor, but it was raining outside. So I thought I’d just shake out the rug over the living room floor and sweep up the stuff that came out with the rest of the dirt.

    So there I was, 6’1″ with skinny, long arms, holding the folded rug up at shoulder level (bringing the end up just above the floor), using my full wingspan. I was kicking it with alternating feet to spectacular effect. I’m sure it was quite a sight. I’m equally sure it was very effective.

    How was I to know a medium sized rug could hold enough sand for a private beach?

    “How indeed?” my wife may ask.