Now my dishwasher is broken.
Careful readers, meaning readers who’ve read me for the last two days, will note my refrigerator stopped running this weekend. I now have the fridge plugged into my orange Christmas lights extension cord, and it’s draped becomingly across my kitchen floor and up onto the cupboards where it’s joined in holy matrimony with a power strip. Won’t you join my tour of homes?
That was hideous enough. Now the dishwasher just up and died. Up and died like Mr. Bojangles’ dog. So once again, to avoid a repair person coming in here and infecting me and all my children
[I totally just Erica Kane’d your ass]
I’ve gone ahead and ordered dish soap, a tub and a rack to do dishes by hand. Goddammit. This shit is getting more Little House by the minute. You remember all the stories of Laura ordering Palmolive through Amazon.
What could be wrong? Why the fridge plug and now my dishwasher? You don’t plug in a dishwasher, or do you? Oh, GOD.
The good news is, my footstool is done, so I’ve helped that small business, along with my giant contribution to Kit with my $15 flower paintings. Hey, Kit, do you have a nice small side table? I can’t afford it yet because foot$tool. Still. Keep me informed for next pay period.
I also ordered a t-shirt from my friend’s general store out in the country. I already had one in blue and it’s the softest t-shirt I own. So I ordered one in salmon and it came yesterday. I’m swimmin’ upstream in it!
Am I ever.
Also, while we’re up, here’s my tarot reading for this month, under the category “The home.” I keep the notes from my readings on my phone, for quick access.
“Major” doesn’t mean a major appliance. It’s me telling myself that this was a major arcana card.
This is a major arcana card. It’s the ones that read The Emperor or The Fool or what have you instead of six of wands or eight of cups, etc. When you draw a major arcana, it means this part will have more of an influence on your life than if you’d drawn, say, a Page of Swords.
Back in the late ’90s, Marvin and I moved into a cool 1940s-era duplex in LA. It was absolutely magnificent, favorite place I ever lived, except for one thing: No dishwasher.
So Marvin and I, being the modern equitable couple we were, decided to take turns doing dishes. The thing is, we’d eat something and then I’d go do dishes. Then it’d be his turn.
Breakfast? No dish-doing after. Lunch? Eh, do them later.
Marvin would wait until we were using clothespins as cutlery and measuring cups for, you know, cups. And then he’d stand there and complain about how long it took to do dishes.
We lived in that place for six years. Did he ever learn? He did not.
I remember out that kitchen window you could see the triplex of our neighbor, Mr. Robert, and his wife, Mrs. Robert. According to Alicia, who lived across the street, they once got into a fight and she heard Mrs. Robert screeching, “Fuck-a you! FUCK-A YOU!”
They were foreign. I forget where they were from. Everybody was foreign in LA. I once counted how many people at work spoke with accents and I had more coworkers with accents than without. It was cool.
Anyway, Mr. and Mrs. Robert (his real name was so not Robert, but he said it was Robert, so okay) had a mother who lived in the front apartment of the triplex, and a caretaker came every day to help out. The caretaker would go in the yard and do tai chi, and sometimes I’d take my hands out of the soapy water and do tai chi with her in my kitchen.
The Mrs. Robert mother watched very loud Korean dramas, and eventually I got into them too, a thing that annoyed the bejeesus out of Marvin, as apparently it’s hard to tune out Korean from another room. Maybe Mr. and Mrs. and Mother Robert were Korean. See how nothing gets past this rapier mind?
When I should have had a blog is back then, when I lived in that cool neighborhood in that cool apartment. Life was just more interesting then. But then and now I am dishwasherless and pandemicky and goddammit.