A Love Story

When I was young and naive, I took for granted the comfort and convenience that come with living in a first-world, middle-class dwelling. 

Eat food at a table?  Yes, don't mind if I do!  Why would I eat anywhere BUT at a table? 

What shall I do with my used dishes?  Why, I will put them in the dishwasher!  Why would I bend over the sink and scald my delicate fingers washing dishes by hand?

I have worn my clothes and now they are dirty.  Must I beat my clothes against rocks in the stream?  Nay.  I will deposit them in this washing machine, followed by a dryer, and my clothes will appear clean and presentable once more.

And then we moved to Idaho, and none of these wonderful contrivances, which many people in the post-industrial world enjoy, were available to me.  Many a meal was served atop a cardboard box before we found a steal of a deal - $50 for a third-hand table and chairs on Craigslist.  To this day the only normal transaction I've ever had on Craigslist.  But I digress.  The unfortunate syndrome known as Dishpan Hands quickly withered my fair digits.  If not for my lack of liver spots, my gnarled paws could have passed for those of a grandmother.  Latex cleaning gloves ameliorated some of this problem, but did nothing for the hunchback I was developing from spending so much time bent over the sink. 

And then there was the problem of the laundry.  I have previously chronicled my laundromat trials, as they were many and harrowing.  I yearned for a time when I could spontaneously throw a load into the washer and go about my business, pausing only to transfer the load into the dryer and continue cooking, or reading, or blogging, or generally being unmolested by unsavory strangers.  This minimally disruptive laundry affair would capitulate with me sitting on the couch, folding laundry and watching TV.  That little act of comfortable domesticity, in which I pair up my socks and put my underwear in a neat little pile while Oprah drops wisdom in the background, loomed at the forefront of my desires. 

Behold, my current living arrangement.  We have managed to secure all the comforts of civilization.  Well, not quite.  A dishwasher.  A washer, a dryer.  A real TV with CABLE!  But yet, no table.  We passed our now-fourth-hand Idaho table on to our deserving diagonal neighbors, allowing it to continue on its journey in some sort of sisterhood of the traveling table.  I'd like to think that no matter how large or small your family, if it's just you and your cat or 19 children, the table can accommodate all.

But the table is really not the point here.  The point is, for the past month, I have been falling in love all over again with modern convenience.  As a girl, I regarded these appliances in much the same way that I regarded my mom and grandmom.  Sure, I loved them very much, but in my juvenile selfishness, I kind of just expected them to be there and do stuff for me.  After suffering without them (all of them...mom, grandmom, washer, dryer, dishwasher...the whole gang) I appreciate them so much more. 

But we're not getting all sentimental here, we're still really talking about machines.  Machines that I now feel I could not ever again live without.  Everything is so much easier with them.  At least, I felt this way until I discovered there was a catch.  My love affair comes at no small price.  And that price is $241, apparently.

TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY ONE DOLLARS.  SWEET FANCY MOSES that is a lot of money for electricity for a one-bedroom apartment.  My tight-fisted little heart is weeping.  There is loss, there is betrayal.  How could a relationship that seemed so pure and beautiful in the beginning sour so quickly?  I should have known it was too good to be true.  It wasn't magic that was making that washer spin, making that dryer tumble.  It was science.  And science costs money.  If I could power my apartment with unicorn farts, I would.  But I can't. 

I have a feeling this is the start of a long, abusive relationship.  I just don't know how to quit you, PSE&G.