The charms of our rental house have indeed proved fleeting.

Let me paint for you the tragic picture of life at Chez Vincent these days. Just a few weeks after moving into our house, the garbage disposal that had always made the kind of terrifying grinding noise of loose metal blades flying around a pipe suddenly stopped making any noise. No amount of hot water, Drain-o, or vinegar and baking soda foam bombs have helped. This thing done broke, y’all. So now we have to scrape food scraps into the actual trash can. Or, we would, if the trash can wasn’t still full of things from the move. So we have to put things in the trash bag on the floor, which means we have to bend over. For food scraps. And we have been doing this for four unholy months. My back may never be the same.

To add gushing wound to injury, now our microwave won’t work. Well, not on purpose, anyway. It started turning itself on. Yep. It will just start, of its own accord, with a minute on its clock. My friend, Whip, likes to tell me it’s a ghost, because of that one time my autographed picture of Leonardo DiCaprio threw itself off my dresser, and how sometimes the light above the shower turns itself off, but I don’t deal with that, so I am thinking air currents and electrical shorts. I ain’t afraid of no ghost. Except I’m terrified, so please get out of the house.

Anyway, the other night we had a ghost electrical surge and the microwave wouldn’t stop turning itself on and beeping over and over for no reason. So my husband unplugged it and we continued marathoning Lost. Then, the other night, we plugged it back in and tried again, but it would only turn itself on for a minute and this time all the buttons stopped responding to my touch.  Last night, I needed to nuke part of dinner for a mere 2 minutes, but nope. I got a minute out of it, then it beeped over and over and said “SHORT SHORT SHORT SHORT” on the screen, which I assume is an electrical short, and not a ghostly insult, and we had to unplug it again. How am I supposed to tell the time when the oven is on? How am I supposed to steam the broccoli that comes frozen in the steamer bags? How am I supposed to set a timer?

No disposal, no microwave. What is this, 1620? Am I supposed to start shucking corn and churning butter and battening the homestead against the ghosts natives?

And I know you’re wondering why I don’t just call the landlord. I don’t need to answer to you, and I don’t appreciate your tone. But I’ve been busy. Also, because my house is a wreck, okay? I’m not even unpacked. And it’s embarrassing. In all honesty, I worked an ungodly amount of hours in my cubicle the first quarter of 2014, and have been working extra on writing in the past 6 weeks, so I shouldn’t beat myself up. Even though I still do. So I really don’t need your judgement. Just a hug, and maybe someone could take the autographed picture of Leo… just to test… uh things.

And that’s my life without any modern conveniences at all. Woe is me.

Y’all have a great day!
-Kaitlin

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