Thursday, January 13, 2011

Female Erectile Dysfunction

When I first moved into my house the first thing that struck me and made me really want to move in was the fact that it had its own garbage disposal. As opposed to having to borrow one from round the corner. I was going to just delete the 'its own' part of that previous sentence but then I realised it made a great 'comedy error' and this is a funny blog. So there you go. Explained that right down to the tedious nubbin didn't I?

I love the idea of having a garbage disposal. It feels ever so American to say garbage disposal. The whole concept of a garbage disposal is terribly American.

Shall we put it in the bin?
Bin? Ha, how quaint. You, you with your one syllable to describe something perfectly functional. Why not use five?? And why, WHY put it quietly into a tidy pedestal with a single bag when you could grind it noisily in the kitchen? Peasants.
Yes dear.

I liked using my garbage disposal for about a day. Then I got annoyed with the noise - the kind of noise you get in your head if you ever try and chew marbles. The novelty hadn't worn off so I carried on using it, but then I got annoyed with the funky smell - the kind of funky smell you get if you cuddle a salmon. But I persevered until it bothered me that the switch was so far away from the sink - I am nothing if not lazy.

So, since about day 4 of having lived in my house I've not really paid much attention to my garbage disposal. It just sits ext to the sink and the draining board looking like a dark hole of gloom. Or Adrian Chiles' gammy face.

All that changed today. Now, today is not just any day - today I am working from home. This means I've had a largely successful day where I've not been bothered by as many issues and I've been able to get things done. I also managed to put some washing on this morning.

The washing machine was rumbling away in the kitchen and I was making a cup of tea. I turned around to put the teabag in the bin - personally I find one syllable quaint and efficient - and I glanced at the garbage disposal. Or where the garbage disposal usually sits.

It was though someone had taken Adrian Chiles' face and thrown a delectable strawberry milkshake at it. There was pink, bubbly water spewing up the garbage disposal and then sulking back down into its murky depths. Something is clearly malfunctioning here - why is the washing machine water in the garbage disposal?

The mental process went as follows -

Hmmmm, I should phone Dad and ask him about that. S'not right.
Maybe you should leave Dad alone - he lives several hours away. Call a plumber.
The house phone's ringing - I should answer that.
Fuck - we have a house phone? Where is it?
It's stopped. Never mind.
So water from the washing machine is getting into the garbage disposal. Right.
Could be worse, it could be the other way round.
What if it is the other way round?

And then I was paralysed. Stood there in the kitchen wondering if grime and skank and bits if ancient onion were floating around in my washing. And when it came out I would bury my face it in like a new born baby to smell the sweet scent of ASDA's own washing powder with no softener because it's fucking pricey and makes no difference, and I would really be burying my face in the remains of dinners gone by...?

What if the pants that are currently housing an epic derriere and a pretty well preserved lady garden are actually carrot peel soaked rags? Can you catch anything from washing your pants in old shepherd's pie?

Needless to say I am now baulking at the thought of touching anything that's been in my washing machine. The bed now looks more like a compost heap in my mind's eye than a cosy swamp filled with dreams and books I've not finished reading.

I phoned a plumber, slightly hysterical at this point, who told me I was hysterical. He seemed to get the impression I was worried about an STI and suggested 'Calling a doctor' and 'Maybe not being so adventurous with food stuff in the bedroom'. Useless.

I'll let you know how the bonfire goes tomorrow.

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