907. Routine Maintenance Is Ruining My Life

I am pretty much shocked when a light bulb burns out.  I take it as a personal affront.  Don’t get me started on when the smoke detector goes off because the battery is dying.  Put gas in the car, you say?  I just filled it up 300 miles ago! 

Routine maintenance sneaks up and punches me in the face several times a week. 

Dishes need to be washed, laundry needs to be done—sure, I expect that.  But when I suddenly see a thick layer of dust on top of a picture frame?  A frame that I know I just dusted a mere few days ago, or was it months now? 

I want my life to be more fun.  More going to Broadway musicals and Paris for the weekend and less having my shoes re-soled.  Since when do shoes wear out?!  I have only been wearing these lovely new shoes nearly every day for, can it be, a year?  They were really expensive, so shouldn’t that guarantee that they will last forever? 

Roofs apparently need to be replaced every 10 years.  Dryer vents are supposed to be cleaned out after every load of laundry.  Toilets require scrubbing, at least on a semi-annual basis.  Who knew? 

I have this almost child-like sense of wonder when a sock gets a hole in the toe.  How did this happen?  I should buy a pair of socks, wear them as frequently as I like, and then throw them out in 20 years if I get bored with them.  Not the other way around.  The socks shouldn’t get to dictate the duration of our sock/ person relationship!      

But somehow the things in my life are ganging up on me and calling it quits.  Just this week, two light bulbs in two separate rooms flickered and went out forever.  It was almost like they were saying, “Ha!  We know you spent $2.37 on each of us, and it’s over now, baby!”  You know, mocking me.  Last week, the doorknob to the laundry room came off in my hand (luckily I was on the outside of the laundry room, or I might still be stuck there and writing this blog via Morse code or smoke signals).  I was so taken aback—since when do doorknobs need to be replaced or reattached? 

“Have you changed the oil in your car lately, Hon?” calls out The Husband.  I don’t even know what that means.  Change the oil?  I put gas in recently, maybe it is the same thing. 

“MOV, what are you, like, Amish now?  Change the oil.  You have to do it every couple thousand miles or so.  If the oil isn't changed often enough, you can end up with accelerated wear and all the engine problems that come with it (loss of performance and fuel economy, and increased emissions and oil consumption),” he concludes, sounding suspiciously like Wikipedia or Yahoo Autos. 

“Will you do it for me?” I beg, trying to appeal to his macho husbandy side that wants to protect me from dragons and avalanches and talking to gas station people who want to overcharge me for car-ish things that I don’t understand (“Ma’am, you’re going to need a new carburetor.  And I hate to tell you this, but if you keep driving your car the way you do, you’ll have a cracked engine block in no time.  And it also looks like you let your windshield fluid drop to dangerously low levels.”). 

“No, MOV, you are perfectly capable of driving your car a half mile to the gas station and having them change the oil.  It’s not a big deal.” 

Just then, my younger son storms into the room. 

“I am not doing my homework,” he announces with a mix of anger and despair.  “Homework is dumb!  Every day, we have to do homework, and just when you think it is over and you don’t have to do any more, then guess what—even more homework.  It never ends.” 

I know exactly how he feels. 

MOV