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Broken down, that's how I feel. And that's how my house feels, as well. This month has been the month of the repairman. The first was my husband's car. Okay, so it's fifteen years old, there's still no reason the transmission had to fail. It had already been changed two years ago. Then, the driver's door wouldn't open from the outside. My husband cannibilized an old car we're waiting to take to the junkyard for the necessary pieces.

 Then the washing machine decided not to expell water. I don't know how many times I had to remove the hose and empty water into a pail before it finally got going. I even had my husband clean out the bottom filter, which turned out to be pretty clean. Yes, it's fourteen years old, but it's the best damn washing machine we've had so far. It's lasted longer than any other we've had. Please, give me another five years, at least!

Then, the door to our storeroom wouldn't open. Somehow the latch had caught and wouldn't open any further. Until it finally broke. So my husband had to break the door open. At seven in the morning. Our daughter, who was at home that day, said the house shook and woke her up. I'm not surprised. So now we have to call a carpenter to install another door because this one will no longer fit into the frame. 

Okay, what's next? The water heater? My car? My sanity?

 

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