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
