I read recently that some scientists believe we are on a crash course with disaster of our own design. We will make machines that can out-think us. If we're lucky, they'll make us pets. If not? We're dinner.
Now you all are free to giggle and point at me. Let's visualize a "Sarah Connor" kind of chronicle here. I must save the world from evil power seeking appliances. I confess here that I have taken about twenty minutes too long to proceed because the vision is over the top~ Let's see: my leather boustier, torn "skinny" jeans, clicky shoes and a plastic trashcan lid and a rubber mallet. I'll give some recent experiences as to why the whole world would be S.O.L. if I were to be its heroine.
I was vacuuming and noticed that my Bissell Babe was getting a bigger kick out of spitting out what she'd picked up than putting it in her little bagless bucket. I drove her back over those pieces to no avail. I slowed her down, checked her filters and tubes: all fine. I must have been "rough" because she shut off her brush, firing little pellets at me from underneath and they hurt like a "muthah" nipping at my shins. I ripped her hose off and ran it under water to assure it wasn't clogged. Nope. She was just being a *itch. I threatened and swore. Plugging her back in after she was dry, she pouted, refusing to even click on. OOOOOOO! At this point, I was seriously considering grabbing her voluptuous sculpted handle and swinging her like a medevil weapon above my head, launching her to the "firetruckin" curb. But that would be childish. So I dragged her silently to the garage, placed her lazy butt next to the garbage can and reassured her of the JOY I would experience as the rubbish truck crushed her cute little red frame into nothing.
"Yes," I said solemnly, "my dear, you suck."
She got to think about her life and what she'd done. This morning, I plugged her in and guess what? She fired right up. She cleaned my car, my house and I believe I heard her offer to do the dishes. Yeah, Who da heat? Mommy! (do the bull dance....)
Next came my washer. A tougher customer, but only because there is intimate apparel involved. I do NOT over load my spinning Hercules. He has washed my favorite baby blankets, kids' treasured stuffed toys/woobies and what-nots perfectly for years. He must have caught a glimpse of my mistreatment of the Bissell witch who lives across the hall from him. He punished me severely by spinning my laundry; no ordinary spin either, the atomic SUPER spin that created a single braided rope of clean clothes. The lynch pin? My panties, which he stuffed all the way down the pole and tucked under the paddles. It was wound so tightly I had to cut them. I hand to cut my "undies" to get my damn laundry out. Niiiiice! Being so short I almost had to climb into that bucket of death to do it. I'm not so sure it wasn't in his plan... I could have perished during the second rinse.
Lastly came the sewing machine; not my favorite anyway. Of course I'm typing that softly so it doesn't hear me- unless the washer already ratted me out. I needed to hem a dress real quick. But the bobbin decided that after all these years, it wanted to be threaded from the OTHER side. If I wasn't willing to do that, it was going to chew up my cute new sundress and sew a pretty seem on the BACK but wad up bolts of thread in wretched harpy knots all along the front. And just for good measure, use an entirely different stitch so I would struggle to pull it out or perhaps tear it. I ended up doing it by hand (should have from the get go) and out of spite I disconnected her gas peddle. It didn't accomplish much but I felt childishly better. Kind of an "I'll show YOU" moment.
And now you'll excuse me, I must call for take out. There is no way on God's green Earth I'm going to use my oven or grill.
My hope is to talk with you again , if the fan at the end of my bed doesn't devour my toes during the night. Sleep tight ... pleasant dreams.
