We live in a disposable world

For years, I lived under the happy assumption that once you bought an appliance, you had it and could move on. I was dismayed when my dishwasher quit—maybe eight years ago—and the tech who installed the new one told me the old machine was probably 35 years old. Longer than I’ve lived in this house. That “new” dishwasher had to be replaced last fall.

Now my 22-year-old refrigerator appears to be on its last legs. Jacob told me yesterday that he tried to get ice and none would come out—and then it exploded ice all over. When I went into the kitchen, I detected the odor of an electrical overheating if not outright fire. Felt the panel over the ice maker, and it was hot. Apparently ice was jammed into the dispenser, so I cleaned it all out—twice. The panel cooled, and I’ve felt of it several times since. It remains fine and no ice has accumulated though I admit I’m a bit scared to try the in-the-door dispenser.

Jordan and Christian went refrigerator shopping today. Since they will be moving into my house they want a say in the fridge, which is only fair, and Christian said he will pay for it. But that’s a ways away, and I’m not ready to shell out $2,000 for a new fridge. Okay, the old one also leaks—but it makes ice and keeps food cold. I haven’t asked what they found because, like me, they’re busy watching TCU lose the bowl game to Oregon.

Years ago I was astounded by the advent of permanent press and fitted sheets. I had plenty of sheets, and they weren’t ragged. Why would I buy new sheets?

It seems we live in a world of replaceable commodities. I hate to sound like an old fuddy duddy, but back in the day manufacturers made things to last. Alas, now they make them—even cars—to wear out so we’ll have to buy new. By the by, my VW Bug is eleven years old, and I’m praying.

A happy ending

Jordan got a "new" used car today--like her wrecked one, it's a Toyota, has about the same number of miles, is in good condition with a few tiny glitches, The big thing is it's a Sequoia, with one more seat than the Forerunner that was hit and totaled. She's a happy camper tonight. We happened to meet in a new restaurant where she and Christian had gone to celebrate, and I had gone to have my weekly dinner with friend Betty, so Jordan proudly showed us the car.
I'm still more thankful than I can ever say that she wasn't seriously injured and that I had picked up Jacob that day so he wasn't in the car with her.
My mom always told me all things work toward some good end. Tonight I really believe it.
PS The lasagna and Caesar salad at the new Bravo! were delicious but huge. We split and came away quite full. Now to write my thousand words for the night.

Car woes

My car is in the Volkswagen hospital tonight. It made weird and alarming noises when Jordan drove us to the country last weekend, and as long as it was at the dealership I asked them to check the persistent rattle in the driver's side door. That turned out to be more expensive than the alarming noises, which were loose fender liners (whatever those are). The latch on the door needs to be replaced, the oil needs changing, and they will wash and vacuum (much needed).
Meanwhile I am driving a sedate Passat. Don't get me wrong--I'm grateful for a loaner. But it's just a car. Jacob was excited, thought I'd gotten a new car, liked the new car smell (he complains my car has a funny odor). But I'm not a particularly happy camper in that car. For one thing, there's that terrible sense of responsibility that you're driving a loaner and must return it in the same pristine condition in which you received it. But beyond that--it's just a car. Sedate is a good word for it.
I bought my Beetle convertible in 2004 because I declared I would not be a stodgy grandmother, and I wanted a car with personality. I am the subject of laughter hidden by hands at the dealership--a nine-year-old car with 24,000 miles on it. But I love my car, top down, top up. People stop me on the street to say they like my car. A woman stopped me the other day at Central Market to ask if I would buy one again, and my answer was an enthusiastic yes. We had a big dinner tonight for which neighbor Jay joined us, and he said "The car is you!" I justified the expense of these repairs because I'm going to drive that car forever--and he said, "Until we take the keys away from you!"
Ellen Degeneres has been on Facebook with a post that says something to the effect of "Can't we stop judging people by whether or not they're gay and just judge them on the car they drive." I think that's so true--just like you know people by the food they eat, you know them by the car they drive. Yeah, I have had my share of Chevrolets but I've also had a VW bus, a Karman Ghia, a black-on-black VW convertible with walnut paneling (a woman stopped me one day and said, "My husband would kill for that car."). I've had a Mercedes, a Sterling, and my first car was a VW bug the color of tomato soup with striping(popular in the sixties)--my theory is anything with personality.
One other problem with the Passat--I don't think it will fit in my 1922 garage. The Bug barely makes it!