A week ago I decided I am terrified of the dishwasher. I read some article about the majority of home fires starting in appliances (dishwashers, washer-driers, toasters). I did the math and concluded that a fire in our dishwasher would immediately block the door to apartment, the only real means of egress (there are fire escapes but they are down the hall), leaving us to perish or — best-case scenario — be airlifted off our deck by helicopter.
(We would send the kids off to safety first. I envisioned Babygirl and LittleMan, all strapped into one of those harnesses, swinging over downtown San Francisco as the chopper lifted them away. LittleMan would NOT like that at all. I entertain these disaster fantasies fairly often. I justify them on the grounds that if I’ve already played through the disaster in my mind, I will be eminently prepared when it actually happens. Of course in the fantasies I always have mom-on-adrenaline ninja powers. Not sure how that will play out in real life.)
Our dishwasher is old — fire-danger-old, if you ask me — and inordinately loud to the point of distraction, so we often run it at night while we’re asleep. Replaying the fire scenario as the dishwasher droned on late the other night, I nudged my husband in bed.
“Babe?” I whispered urgently. “Babe? Are you awake? I don’t want to run the dishwasher at night anymore.”
“Huh?”
“It could catch fire and we wouldn’t know until the flames already blocked the door. We’d be trapped.”
“Mmm.”
“I’m serious. This is a serious issue.”
“Okay.” And he went back to sleep.
There’s a lot going on in my life right now, and several major decisions on the table. Not to go all Psych 101 on you, but it’s possible I’m doing a bit of transference to avoid acknowledging how stressed I am. It’s possible I need to take a few steps back.
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| Graphics by Cori Magee for Nest Studio |
SO. It’s a damn good thing we’re about to go on va-caaaaaaaa-tion!
I’m not talking family-of-four-in-one-hotel-room vacation either. I’m not talking Disneyland, Legoland, Universal City. No ‘lands, no ‘worlds, no sir. I’m not even talking someone-else’s-wedding long weekend vacation. Nope: I’m talking 48 hours, just me and my husband, wandering around sunny San Diego with no agenda whatsoever. Time to sleep. Time to talk. Time to shop, and eat slowly. Time to get ready for a nice dinner without someone trying to steal my earrings and hide them in the couch cushions or fashion my clutch into a hiding place for action figures.
I don’t want to count my chickens but I’m hoping that maybe, just maybe, we’ll come back to San Francisco with a little clarity, perhaps even a plan of attack, and — God willing — a bit of perspective.
I will also come back with a few new outfits to usher in spring. Packing list in play on the Nest Studio blog this week.
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