My wife and I moved into this house about a year and a half ago. It’s a nice house, we both like it. It’s an old house–built in 1949. But I’ve slowly come to the realization that this house has it in for me. I don’t know why. My guess is that this house is either built on a Native American burial site, or else it’s one of the seven gateways to hell. Either way, I have decided to chronicle the house’s attempts on my life and/or sanity.
Take today, for example…but first, some background. Our dishwasher died about 6 months ago. It was an old Whirlpool model from the early 80’s that came with the house. We had been saving up for a new one, but hadn’t gotten around to buying one yet. Then a friend FB’d (that’s hip, internet lingo for “Facebooked”) that she was selling her twice-used, stainless steel dishwasher for cheap (long story, if it were interesting, she’d blog about it). Voila, I thought.
And so, quite innocuously, begins a story of mayhem, destruction, and INSANITY…
