house

Why my house is trendy

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I realized the other day that against my better judgment, I've become fashionable.

Of Washing Machines and Wellington's Overture

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"Do you smell something burning?" I felt my nose crinkle.

"Yeah. I do." My husband got up and searched the house. "I think I see smoke."

All I could think about was the piano. My baby.

Then it occurred to me. For the past few months, the washing machine's sounded like a jet taking off. I've been waiting for this day.

Or waiting for the day when I'd discover a missing washer, a hole in my roof, and reports of UFOs.

Sure enough. The laundry room smelled of burnt rubber.

A Very, Very, Very Fine House

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Composting

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This past weekend I learned that my husband’s packrat tendencies come from his father, who gets it from his father. It’s a stagnant gene pool collecting everything.
Scared me to death.
Confession: I used to be a packrat. I thought everything had sentimental value and was worthy of putting away. No longer. Now I want to throw away everything except for leftovers in the fridge.
Chris: But I might need that someday.
Not if you don’t even remember that you have it because it’s in a pile with three million other unknown objects.
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