Jiminy Cricket

Jiminy Cricket has taken up residence in my kitchen.

He was singing enthusiastically this morning at three. I think he is trying to prick the region of my conscience that pertains to cleaning. Particularly places like the underbelly of my refrigerator.

At four, I was beginning to be swayed; he has quite a voice for someone small enough to hide under my fridge. I was beginning to wonder if maybe there was such a thing as invisible, ten-foot tall crickets.

There was no other explanation for the sheer volume of the thing. But now the night is past, and Jim has become silent. I’m hoping he just dies. And turns to dust.

My conscience refuses to be pricked.

I mean, really: how much of my life do you expect me to devote to cleaning places I only see once every five years or so when the appliance gods throw a wrench my way?

Speaking of (thank those very Gods) my washing machine bit the dust two weeks ago, and just in the nick of time: the warranty expired this week.

Thus Sears, and not I, paid the $1600 repair bill on my $800 machine.

They didn’t want to just replace the machine, because then it wouldn’t match my $700 dryer. So they just rebuilt the entire thing.

Makes perfect sense.

A friendly representative from their warranty department called me on Wednesday to offer a special limited-time rate on renewing my warranty for a full year–an entire 12 months. The cost to me? Only $750.

For record-keeping purposes, she asked the reason for my refusal.

I told her my firstborn was being held hostage by an alien race of giant crickets, and while I hated to pass up such an incredible deal, I was just going to have to gamble that the appliance gods would smile on me for one more year; I need every spare $750 I’ve got lying around, for ransom.


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