The Husband was clearly on her side, and would have none of it when I brought up the subject of her imminent demise and (more happily) her replacement.“How can you even talk about Washing Machine like that? I thought you loved Washing Machine,” he started, making me question my intimacy level with not only Washing Machine, but also with The Husband. “I think we can get another few years out of her, and besides, I think she can hear us talking about her.”
Now this was quite the reversal. I was usually the one who ascribed personality traits and sometimes even names to inanimate objects, not The Husband. Normally, he was pragmatic.“Sweetie,” I countered, “let’s be realistic. Washing Machine was here when we bought the house almost four years ago, and she had already served her 20-year tour of duty for the previous owner. Twenty-four in ‘appliance years’ is like 110 in people years. She is beyond elderly, she’s ... ancient.”
The Husband adopted a peculiar look, a look of horror, mixed with disgust, with a dash of determination thrown in. I had seen this same look before, right after my car engine died three years ago and had to be replaced. The Husband was exhibiting classic signs of denial.“MOV, Washing Machine is not dead yet, and I refuse to acknowledge the possibility.”
“Look, Sweetie, we just got our tax refund—$700! And that is exactly what a decent quality washer costs. Let’s go to Sears, scope out a few, and make a decision.”The Husband shook his head forlornly.
“No. No. I refuse.”He disappeared to the basement, and came back a few minutes later as if nothing had happened.
“We’re going to Sears,” he said, getting his jacket.I tried to suppress my smug attitude and a devious smile, but I knew I had won.
“MOV, Washing Machine is fine,” he clarified. “Now Dryer won’t start.”MOV