Friday, November 12, 2010

Feeling hot, hot, hot

For some unknown reason, I have an extremely healthy paranoia regarding everything known to man the major appliances in my home. I'm just convinced that they will suddenly stop working at some pivotal moment in my life and I will be forced to live in misery for an extended period of time. It's really just too much for me to potentially handle. Intolerable, even. I find myself praying and begging each time I use some crusty old thing that resides in my basement in the hopes of my words and talks with the Big Guy convincing these devices to stick around for another 18 years.

Sometimes, though, it's important to realize that waiting for something to die suddenly isn't always the solution to a potential problem. You should just kill it before it dies. You know, because there really are moments when an ounce of prevention is the best recipe. I can't cook or bake, but that's what the person in our house who does those things tells me about cooking and baking. Then, there's the realization that the energy savings 30% tax credit is expiring shortly. Either way, we have come to realize that it is time to say goodbye to an old friend whose time has come.

Say hello to my water heater. It's old. And crusty. And is now of legal voting age. Sure, it works just fine during my overly steamy 30-minute showers. It works when two showers are operating in concert, even. But what about its age, I often ask myself when staring at its ugly mug and an orange sticker that says "1992 inspection report: PASSED." The only thing I passed in 1992 was a multiplication times table or cursive writing test. Then, I went out to recess and played four-square. That was a while ago, people. I mean, I could probably still pass those tests and play a mean game of kickball, but that particular part of my brain is probably resting upon cinder blocks with lots of gross cobwebs. Mostly because I need the space to store information about how to thwart potential burglars, make witty comments and remember that my dog likes to be scratched behind her left ear NOT her right.


I just can't help but think about all the great times we've had together, what with all the influences hot water plays in my life. Like, all those times I was scalded. Or, all the occasions that it took approximately 5 million seconds to warm the shower to a suitable temperature. Stuff like that. I think the water heater's best moment, however, was the time my husband stole its insulated blanket to keep his home brewed beer warm instead. Right. Because it made sense to keep the beer warm instead of the water heater, economically speaking. I'm sure it was crying on the inside from this deep, cutting insult. Or, outwardly threatening to burn me.

{Don't make me hurt you. I'll do it. Swear.}

But then again, how can I be expected to feel sorry for someone who openly admits to being a miser? That's right. A miser. I know, the last time you heard someone referred to by such a name you were watching "A Christmas Story" or pretending like it was the year 1892. Or, you were hanging out in my gross basement. But if you're going to be a miser about anything, it might as well be energy. Or dog treats.

{Maybe you'd have more friends if you weren't such a miser.}


Mama.Mommy.Mom. said...

I tagged you in a post on my site...

Kerry McCullough said...

OH man, those are pretty expensive, too! I would wait for that old miser to die ;)

Mizzreviewlady said...

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