My husband phoned me at work the other day, and my heart sank when his first words were “I have some bad news,” spoken in a sombre tone.
I immediately thought he was calling to say that something had happened to our cat, Jack, who is nearly 18 and was diagnosed with diabetes two years ago. It means twice-daily shots of insulin for him, and while he still seems happy and healthy — his ability to get under my feet as I walk down the hall is as sharp as it ever was — I know that the day when we have to say goodbye is coming sooner rather than later.
However, the news was about our washing machine, which appears to have given up the ghost. (As an aside, I did tell Christopher that starting off a conversation with “I have some bad news” isn’t ideal, as my mind immediately flew to Jack. He replied that if the news had been about Jack he would have sounded a lot more sad, which is fine as far as it goes, but judging the severity of “bad news” by the tone of someone’s voice over the phone isn’t necessarily the best diagnostic tool out there.)
(As an aside to this aside — about distressing news related via a phone call — I was reminded of when my son called me about his drive home to Prince George after spending Christmas in Ashcroft. He called me (hands-free) at one point to say the weather and road conditions around Kersley were the worst and scariest he had ever driven in, as he was actually driving through those scary conditions. I took a deep breath and reminded him that, as a mother, I would much rather that he informed me of this when he was safely back in Prince George, not as a live report.)
Where was I? Oh yes, the washing machine. I cannot, in all conscience, feel too bad about it, seeing as how the machine in question — a Magic Chef — was purchased shortly after we moved to Ashcroft in early 1997, and has provided 28 years of faithful service. We purchased a Magic Chef dryer at the same time, and while it went to that great scrapyard in the sky several years ago, the washer has kept chugging along, quietly doing its thing week in and week out.
(Another aside, separate from the other two: we had to buy a new washer and dryer, as well as a new everything else that plugged into an electrical socket, when we moved to Ashcroft because we moved here from Great Britain. Because they operate on a different electrical current, the move rendered every electric thing we owned — from table lamps, a toaster, and a television set to the washer, dryer, fridge, and stove — useless in Canada.)
(As an aside to the above, we would not have brought the fridge anyway. In Britain, at least at the time, large North American-style fridges were almost unknown, because most homes lacked the space for them. When I first saw our new house, I looked around the kitchen for a fridge, which was cleverly concealed behind what looked like a cupboard door. I looked at it in silence, then said “In Canada we’d call that a bar fridge.” Vive la difference.)
Ahem. Washing machines. Right. Well, it looks as if we’ll be on the hunt for a new one, which means splashing out a not-inconsiderable chunk of change on something that is not in any way exciting or fun, and which will get relatively little use, which seems completely unfair. Anything that costs around, or in excess of, four figures should at least have some glamour about it, make you rub your hands together in a little glee, think “Yay!” and look forward to admiring it and using it frequently. Washing machines definitely do not qualify on any of these points, which is not their fault, just a somewhat sad fact of life.
(As an aside, I should mention that . . . oops, out of space. Rats.)
