Being a big kid sucks.
Because when something expensive decides to explode, you have to replace it … yourself.
But being a domesticait sucks even more, because when something expensive decides to explode, IT TAKES ITS EXPENSIVE FRIENDS DOWN WITH THE SHIP.
In the span of less than a month, we have played an elegant swan song for both of our computers, kazoo-ed a bit for our car, and have the jug band waiting in the wings for our apartment.
First, we have our computers. Mine is the blue plate special–bought selflessly by my parents upon my junior year of college. It cost a staggering $300 and made it through my Honors Thesis and weird papers about how Winnie the Pooh is a Communist. Not to mention, me frying it during my first night in Rome, using it as a doorstop and warning signal to unexpected stairs in weird French hotel rooms, schlepping its seemingly useless computer corpse through the next three weeks in Europe and then reviving it back in the States.
So, it should be no wonder that the thing has since given up the goat, two years in. I still have it on life support, but do not have high hopes.
A’s computer, on the other hand, is a $1000+ behemoth that he bought more than five years ago. He babied that monster along and has 17 trillion things on that computer. But we watched the nuptials of William and Kate on that thing, so it has some fond memories, and we hate to see it go–computers: 2, us: 0.
Not to be outdone, I took our car, which we bought feverishly after our car accident NOT EVEN A G-DAMN YEAR AGO, to its regular oil change. I consider myself a moderately responsible car owner (although others in my house may beg to differ) and took the vehicle to the mechanic. Well … NEVER AGAIN.
This routine oil change quickly turned into a $3,000 service bill for things that sounded SUPER SCARY. The guy wrote, “BAD” on the referral form, you guys.
So, since that estimate is officially half of what the car is worth, we decided to avoid that issue and buy another car. WHEEEE.
Oh, and that needed to be done immediately. OF COURSE.
Finally, I was taking the pooch out for a walk while the husband was in the shower. We were descending the stairs (sidenote: Beef needs to be carried because she is stumpy and goes ass-over-teacup down the stairs when left to her own devices ISN’T THAT ADORABLE.) and I felt a drop of water on my head.
I immediately panic, and picture this guy hanging upside down in the stairwell, and the drop was his fang-drool cascading onto my innocent head just before he devours me whole.
Turns out, it was something even more terrifying: our bathroom, and all of the water included therein, is running down into the stairwell below. Stay tuned to the evening news about a wild naked woman who surfed her bathtub down the stairs after she fell through the floor, mid-shower.
Feel free to add this water feature to the enticing gas aroma that welcomes you in every time the pilot light decides to blow out and the irresistible melody of the ill-fitting storm windows that lull us to sleep every night with their rattling.
Because we have nothing else to save up for right now, we have been looking at houses. Highlight? ASBESTOS.
So, what do I do when faced with an impending financial avalanche? I pick a fight with my husband about the fact that he insists on buying name brand mayonnaise. PRODUCTIVE.
But he got this out of the deal:
Until next time, dear readers. I’ll let you know how good I look in a barrel.