The relationship I’ve experienced over the years with my appliances has been tenuous, to say the least. (I just looked that word up.)
I’ve loved very few, been indifferent to most, and hated some.
For instance, I hated my old dishwasher. Really, a more apt name would have been, Frustrate Pauline to Death and Make Her Work More machine. But that is in the past. Hakuna Matata.
Now I hate my side-by-side refrigerator. Who thought of such a thing? Obviously someone who didn’t ever ever care about freezing anything since nothing fits except frozen pot pies. (Not that I eat them.) AND they never have eaten a frozen pizza in their entire lives. Obviously, the inventor must have eaten out all the time.
But I loved my old dryer. In fact, when it finally died after 20+ years, I hugged it and when Tom took it away to dryer heaven he discovered about $25 in coins and cash. Like the side-by-side refrigerator inventor, we went out to eat that day. (No socks by the way.)
In all the years of appliance owning, I’ve never been fearful of an appliance. Until now.
It’s my vacuum cleaner. Really, it’s a the iRobot Roomba. Since building an outside kitchen for cooking my products, I’ve been able to let my standard poodle, Sam back in. He’s no problem, because he doesn’t shed. It’s the mutt dog, Barnabas and my ferocious kitty, Bree that are the problem.
They shed. Big time.
So, as a gift to myself, I purchased Roger Roomba.
About every other day, I turn my kitchen chairs upside down on the table, load the counter stools on the couch, and push Roger’s navel twice. He sings a robotic war-like charge song and begins to scoot gingerly around my wood floors. I can’t watch although I’ve been mesmerized on several occasions at his antics. In fact, after he is throughly convinced he has every single strand of pet hair in his belly, he returns to his home on the black stand plugged into the wall.
However, the other day, he chased me. Wherever I went, he went. Finally, I locked myself in my office while I listened to his faraway war chant. Retrieving my coffee put me at risk, but you coffee drinkers know I had no choice.
He headed right at me, I zigged and zagged like a running back.
And then I fell.
And when you’re past 50, falling is a bad thing.
But Roger does his job.
Now I’m taking two cups of coffee in my office with me.
And when Roger goes home, I come out.
In all relationships there are compromises. And I’m okay with that.