There are days when any electrical appliance in the house, including the vacuum cleaner, offers more entertainment than the TV set.
Harriet Van Horne
Fry Me to the Moon
May 18, 2006
Whenever I sit down to type up a journal entry, God sends a thunderstorm to thwart me. It never fails: I flex my fingers, crack my knuckles, poise my hands like a pianist over my keyboard, and crack! go the heavens, SMASH! goes the thunder, and aaaagh! go I as I dive to unplug the computer, thus saving it from the inevitable power outage and subsequent power surge. Obviously the powers-that-be have decided that my words are blasphemous and must not be spread. It’s not that I don’t agree; I just don’t see why they have to fry my computer to keep me from blogging. Wouldn’t it be smarter to just zap me, instead?
Hang on, I take that back. That wasn’t a very good ide*ZZZZZZZAAAAPPP!*
All jokes aside, electrical fryification has been something of an issue in the Tony-Romy household of late; thanks to my husband and his late, lamented beard trimmer, we now know that the rarely-used power outlet next to the bathroom sink is a homicidal little bastard, even if it does sort of look like a smiley face. My husband and I had just had a rousing row about his beard trimmer in particular and my habit of moving things without telling him where I moved them in general, and then he stomped off to the bathroom to trim his beard and I sat down at the laptop to sulk, hoping vaguely that the trimmer would do something mildly unpleasant to his face. And then the laptop started to flicker a bit, as did the lamp next to me, and then there was a buzzing noise and my husband went “YAAAAAAAH!”—and yes, for a second I did wonder if I had powers. But a few fruitless attempts to turn on the TV with my mind proved me wrong, so I wandered over to see what had happened to my husband, who was staggering out of the bathroom clutching his chest and gasping. Turns out the outlet fried his trimmer and zapped his hand when he turned the trimmer on; fortunately, he didn’t have the trimmer up to his face, or his beard would probably have caught fire, which would have set off the smoke alarm, which I have no idea how to turn off. The only thing worse than a loved one on fire is a loved one on fire and a smoke alarm that won’t turn off. I can handle the screaming, I can handle the flailing, I can handle the smell of cooked flesh and scorched bone, but I can’t handle the incessant WOOPWOOPWOOP. Even I have my limits.
In retrospect, though, it’s a good thing that he didn’t get to trim his beard. Three things you should not trim when you’re angry: beards, hedges, and pubic hair. Hell, I can’t even shave my armpits when I’m pissy; they end up looking like Tina Turner got knifed in the head. (And to my husband, who is reading this and is even now opening his mouth to say something witty about the normal state of my armpits: haven’t you had enough brushes with death lately?... Yeah. Thought so.)
Here comes the rain now, in all its rainy rain-ness. There go the squirrels, scurrying for cover... there go the birds, flying off to their nests... there goes the local exhibitionist, hugging his momentarily-appropriate raincoat tighter about his naked form. Uh-oh—the squirrels caught sight of his nuts. This can’t end well.
And here I go, off to curl up on the couch with a good book and a bad attitude. Maybe I’ll bring my electric coaster along to keep my mug of cocoa warm. Just let me plug it in...
*ZZZZAP!*
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Without Feathers is a personal site run by Romy.
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- 6.10.08: Ants in the Crevices, Ants in the Cracks…
- 6.10.08: Review: Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper—Case Closed
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