A few weeks ago, the Casa Carmen Refrigerator demanded its quarterly defrost. (It seems like it needs a quarter hourly defrost.) Nazy and I were naturally concerned…
“… for the safety of the planet, my dear,” I explained.
“The safety of the planet? Surely you exaggerate, Dan.” Nazy replied.
“If we let this ice,” I said, hauling a Rhode Island-sized berg toward the front door. “If we let this ice melt down the drain, Lake Zürich will flood and, when the overflow reaches the Atlantic, it will be just as if the Greenland icecap had melted. The Gulf Stream will be diverted and..”
“That’s absurd..”
“We have friends who live in coastal areas. We have friends in Holland. Do you want to be responsible for a disaster?”
Nazy wasn't convinced and somehow planetary destruction was averted. This week, it was the washing machine that demanded attention. It began with a simple assertion from Nazy:
“There’s a puddle on the floor.”
“I didn’t do it, Nazy.” I replied – confidently.
“Did you overload the machine?”
“No. Did you check the filter?”
“Did you fail to slide the soap dispenser all the way in?”
“Did you neglect the auxillary lent removal device?” I had quick retorts.
“No. Did you, Dan, empty your jeans pockets before loading the washer?”
“Oops,” I thought. “I will clean the filter.”
The mechanism has many filters, but the one in question is located a tenth of a millimetre from the floor. Before it can be accessed and cleaned, the pre-filter retaining flask must be drained. This is done by deftly removing a micro-clamp from a straw-sized, flexible, plastic pipe and directing the flow into a shallow collection container. As you can undoubtedly imagine, several cycles are required before the water is evacuated. Only then can the filter be unscrewed, cleaned and replaced – while you are crawling on the floor.
“… for the safety of the planet, my dear,” I explained.
“The safety of the planet? Surely you exaggerate, Dan.” Nazy replied.
“If we let this ice,” I said, hauling a Rhode Island-sized berg toward the front door. “If we let this ice melt down the drain, Lake Zürich will flood and, when the overflow reaches the Atlantic, it will be just as if the Greenland icecap had melted. The Gulf Stream will be diverted and..”
“That’s absurd..”
“We have friends who live in coastal areas. We have friends in Holland. Do you want to be responsible for a disaster?”
Nazy wasn't convinced and somehow planetary destruction was averted. This week, it was the washing machine that demanded attention. It began with a simple assertion from Nazy:
“There’s a puddle on the floor.”
“I didn’t do it, Nazy.” I replied – confidently.
“Did you overload the machine?”
“No. Did you check the filter?”
“Did you fail to slide the soap dispenser all the way in?”
“Did you neglect the auxillary lent removal device?” I had quick retorts.
“No. Did you, Dan, empty your jeans pockets before loading the washer?”
“Oops,” I thought. “I will clean the filter.”
The mechanism has many filters, but the one in question is located a tenth of a millimetre from the floor. Before it can be accessed and cleaned, the pre-filter retaining flask must be drained. This is done by deftly removing a micro-clamp from a straw-sized, flexible, plastic pipe and directing the flow into a shallow collection container. As you can undoubtedly imagine, several cycles are required before the water is evacuated. Only then can the filter be unscrewed, cleaned and replaced – while you are crawling on the floor.
I performed all of these actions flawlessly and without complaint.
Spousal Interrupt
“Flawlessly, Dan? You dripped water all over the floor.
“How can you tell, Nazy? That’s the same puddle that you saw in the first place.” “And,” I thought, “that’s the puddle that provoked the work.”
“Without complaint, Dan? You muttered incomprehensively the whole time you were working on the filter.”
“Incomprehensively,” I thought. “Thank God.”
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