Dani Stone

I Hear Laugh Tracks

My Kitchen Needs A Mop and a Good Exorcism

3 Comments

Isn’t it funny how the ebb and flow of life can take you from happiness to irritation in just a few short minutes. And of course by funny I don’t mean funny-HAHA, I mean funny-OH COME ON YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME WITH THIS.

One minute you’re with your daughter petting a pot-bellied pig and looking at the hairless ass of a hand-size tarantula sitting in Tupperware and the next minute you come home to find your husband behind the refrigerator cursing like he’s in a Quinton Tarantino movie. We’ve all been THERE, right? No? Okay, sorry. Quick recap.

Evidently the tarantula does something to his booty hair when he's stressed out. HELLO? You're the tarantula, dude!

Evidently the tarantula does something to his booty hair when he’s stressed out. HELLO? You’re the tarantula, dude!

Last Thursday I joined my daughter’s Girl Scout troop on a field trip to visit The Bug Lady where we saw the creepy Tupperware tarantula (pictured) and also watched The Lady Bug mascot, a pot bellied pig, lumber around the room and chew on all the rugs. Good times had by all. Then we dodged hail stones through a spring thunderstorm until we made it back home. That’s where the fun train stopped. Our smiles faded the moment we walked in the door.

In the kitchen, the refrigerator was pulled back from the wall and my husband was crouched behind it like a profane, but clothed and much better looking Gollum from Lord of the Rings. He peered out behind it, noticed his precious daughter was standing there and then carefully controlled his tone while telling me in pseudo-curse-speak that the, “sock cucking refrigerator was making a loud noise.” Then he announced, “Let’s just add this one to the mother clucking list.” After recapping the situation in colorful and inventive language, he then knelt down by our daughter and let her regale him with stories of bunnies, parrots, rats and bugs from our evening with The Bug Lady. He’s a good Dadoo like that.

He’s right, though. What’s next? Over the last two months our appliances have been breaking down so fast I’m starting to wonder if it’s more than bad luck. Maybe what we’re dealing with here is the work of a Kitchen Poltergeist. I mean, these appliances aren’t just sputtering and refusing to come back on. These things are displaying some serious Amityville Horror antics. A few weeks ago, I wrote about our dishwasher and how it added insult to injury when, just days after my uncle’s funeral, it started SHRIEKING AT ME, then leaking scalding hot water on my feet like a scary sieve and never stopped. That is, until a neighbor was kind enough to follow my Lassie-like pants for help and unplug the water line. You can read about the Devil Dishwasher HERE.

Now the fridge. When Doug plugged it back in to show me what it was doing, I steadied myself against the counter. After 30 seconds of curiosity, the ice-making, frozen waffle toting son of a barnacle started YELLING at us. Not like the devil dishwasher banshee shriek, this was deeper. My refrigerator is now a baritone. I was scared to open the door. I mean, the dishwasher literally threw water at me, and people, I keep heavy jars of pickles in that fridge. I can’t have a rogue refrigerator hurling condiments and picnic side dishes at my children.

Magnet from my fridge. You said somethin' there, sister.

Magnet from my fridge. You said somethin’ there, sister.

Now let’s talk about the stove. Inside that sleek electric cook top there lies a persnickety poltergeist who terrorizes me, but only sporadically. Six months ago I noticed that the largest burner would sometimes take it upon itself to stay on the HIGH setting, no matter what the actual dial was turned to. It’s just bringin’ the heat. Bringin’ all the heat, all the time. After more boil-overs, burnt food and ruined suppers than I can count, I finally learned to cook with it by adopting the first rule of scary movie survival; never turn your back on the beast.

So now what do we do? We have modest incomes. We can’t replace these shrieking, yelling monsters. Hell, the dishwasher is still sitting idle and we’re scrubbing plates old-school style. I’ve got the dish pan hands to prove it.

I’d consider an exorcism but we’re not Catholic. Can’t call a priest. That would be hypocritical. I can just hear him. Tsk-tsking me and saying, “Oh, so you won’t observe Ash Wednesday with us but now you want me to get rid of your kitchen demon, do ya? Well, no ma’am. It doesn’t work that way.” I hope you read that with an Irish accent. I know I did.

So now what? I was baptized Southern Baptist but to say I’m a practicing Baptist would be a stretch. My husband is so confused about religion he knows Christmas is when the baby Jesus was born but Easter throws him for a loop. “So Jesus died a violent death and God let him die and that saved my sins and then he rolled the stone away and went to heaven and that’s why we hide eggs?” Yep, pretty much.

I tried standing in the kitchen and singing one of the few hymnals I remember, but my off-key rendition of “Showers of Blessings” did not intimidate the Kitchen Poltergeist and I’m pretty sure it scared the cats.

Should I be wary of the small appliances now? Are they going to turn on me next? Is my toaster going to start browning images of scream-faces on my bread? When I turn on the blender am I going to hear the blades spin and say, “Get Out?” Will the can opener pelt me with peas? Where does it end? Evidently it doesn’t.

Today while I was on kid pick-up duty, our trusty Honda mini van stalled five times. Evidently the Poltergeist is eeking through the walls to the garage. I know I have to tell Dougie. I just don’t want to. The man has had it up to HERE with a house that feels like it’s falling apart around us and we can’t do anything about it.

Home ownership looks good on paper but right now, I’d settle for a nice rented condo. At least we wouldn’t have to worry about failing appliances, peeling paint, a crumbling chimney, crab grass, termites or, you know, the possibility of blood dripping from the walls.

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3 thoughts on “My Kitchen Needs A Mop and a Good Exorcism

  1. I think if you move the spirits just follow you. You prob just need a good arsonist and an alibi.

  2. I totally read that in an irish accent.

  3. Lawd have mercy, I hear you. My mom’s appliances lasted all of my childhood and well into her grandchildren’s lives. I have replaced my fridge and washer both in the last 5 years. WTH?

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