Ice(cube) Capades

[ Let Inga Tell You, La Jolla Light, published January 29, 2024] 2024

When you find yourself writing about ice cubes, is it time to hang it up?

I m aware I've written about appliances a lot lately because, well, failing appliances have been sucking up an ordinate amount of our time and money in recent months.

Sorry, folks: here comes another one.

A few months ago, I chronicled, among our various appliance challenges, the acquisition of a new refrigerator that had to fit into a very tight space and left us with exactly two choices. We re talking two choices of any brand in any price range. Fridges have gotten a lot deeper since the last time we bought one for our 1999 kitchen remodel.

We loved our previous sadly-deceased fridge and were hoping to reincarnate it. The fridge we ended up with was the same brand and exactly the same exterior dimensions as its predecessor, with, oddly, a lot less interior space. We can only assume its walls now have five inches of eco-excessive insulation.

The replacement, while hardly an inexpensive appliance, is a far (far) inferior version in every possible way. Even the door shelves on the refrigerator side are a thin, flimsy plastic. (Are they even actually plastic or something created by a hobby-level 3D printer?) It's like the designers sat down and said, How we can re-design this interior space to make it smaller, darker, chintzier, and guaranteed to annoy the s--t out of the owner?

One of the features that we didn't want but were forced to buy was a door ice dispenser. To us, it just screamed repair.

As it turns out, it s screaming a lot of other things too. And so are we.

This door dispenser takes up almost all the interior door real estate of our freezer so we have half as much freezer storage as we had before. Personally, we'd prefer to use our freezer for, say, freezing stuff.

But worse, it s really hard to get just the number of ice cubes you want from the door dispenser. Of course, with our old refrigerator, we just opened the freezer door and stuck our little hands into the heavy-duty ice bin and took as many as we needed. Theoretically, the door dispensers are more environmentally friendly because you are opening your freezer door less often. We aren't convinced.

Having never had a freezer door ice dispenser before, we've found there s a definite learning curve. Lesson one: It s all in the wrist.

You press your beverage glass against the sensor and ice starts to come out. You pull back quickly before too many come out. But you don't have quite enough so you press your glass against the sensor hoping for another two cubes. Next thing you know, there's ice cubes all over the floor. These are usually accompanied by bad words.

It's become a predictable script: ice can be heard filling a glass. Then: Wait! Stop! No! Fuck! (Sound of ice cubes hitting the floor).

So we've tried to make a friendly competition of the new ice dispenser as to who can dispense ice with the least number of cubes on the floor. Score is being kept.

When you get to our age, fun is where you find it. It also means your kids will roll their eyes and insist, "you guys need a life."

We have a life. It just happens to involve ice cube wars. So far, the ice cube dispenser is winning. And it knows it.

At Christmas, I tried to fill up a Ziplock bag with ice cubes to transport some perishable food on our trip to L.A. I held the open bag under the door spout and pressed, just as I would with a drinking glass. A few cubes came out but then stopped. I kept pressing. Was it jammed? I finally opened the freezer door to check and was greeted with a veritable avalanche of ice cubes which skittered all over the kitchen floor. Why this shouldn't have worked, I don t know. But note to self: next time fill the Ziplock bag with single glassfuls of ice.

Alternatively, one could remove the entire ice bin from the freezer to access ice to fill the Ziplock bag but its thin cheap plastic-esque material resists sliding out or back in. Best to let sleeping ice bins lie.

Maybe other ice dispensers work better than this one. But now I keep a separate glass in our tiny useless freezer filled with ice cubes from which I can then take as many as I need. Sometimes you just have to admit defeat.

Of course, we're slowly getting better with practice. But a day without a single ice cube on our floor would be a rare day indeed. The dog knows better than to stand anywhere near the fridge as ice is being dispensed lest she be in the line of fire. When even the dog has it figured out, pay attention. 

 

Uber For The Elderly

[“Let Inga Tell You,” La Jolla Light, published January 22, 2024] ©2024

Rideshares have enjoyed mixed reputations in recent years but compared to the olden days when the only other options were taxis, they’ve been a huge boon to the elderly. 

I can’t even count the number of rides home I gave over the years to seniors who were relegated to a folding chair in front of a supermarket, a cart full of melting groceries next to them, waiting for a taxi that never came.  These were women who would normally never get in a car with a stranger but after an hour in a folding chair in a grocery store parking lot, being murdered didn’t sound too bad.

Now a senior myself, I’ve been thinking about all the other applications ride shares might be used for with the elderly. On your 65^th birthday – as soon as that Medicare card is laminated and tucked into your wallet, the dementia anxiety attacks – and jokes – begin. We laugh, of course, to hide the fact that we’re completely terrified. Watching the 11 o’clock news about the elderly person who has wandered off from her facility truly puts fear in your heart. You can’t help but super-impose your face on the screen. And you just know your hair would look like hell.

I read an article a while back that said if you can’t find your car keys, that’s getting older. If you don’t remember you have a car, it’s dementia. Every time I’m searching in my mind for a word for a column or crossword, I find myself muttering a refrain in the background, “I have a car, I have a car.” Probably if I stopped doing that, I’d remember the word a lot sooner.

It didn’t help that soon after my 65^th birthday, my older son, the perpetual prankster Rory, saw an ad on TV for a placement service for the severely memory-impaired. Several days later, a very sympathetic woman called and asked for my husband Olof, and when told he was at work, was dismayed to learn that I had been left unattended. She seemed to have a great deal of information about me and when I adamantly insisted “I do not need institutional care!” soothed, “You seem to be having one of your good days, dear.”

But back to Uber. I think ride shares have huge possibilities for the senility set. There could be a special app that pops up as soon as you pick up your phone showing a photo of your house with your address underneath and the words “You live here.” If you still couldn’t find your house, you’d just press the icon’s Save Me! option and a ride share would show up and take you home. That, of course, is assuming you can remember to push the button but that seems inherently easier than remembering your address – especially here.

Addresses in La Jolla are basically permutations of the same ten Spanish words.  You could be forgiven even before you’re senile for not remembering whether you live on Vista Playa Bonita or Playa Bonita Vista.

I had some even better ideas after my younger son told me that over the holidays one year, they sent a ride share to their house for the chocolate soufflé they’d inadvertently left home. The sitter handed off the soufflé to the Uber driver, who delivered it to the dinner party. (For the record, the soufflé rated the driver very highly.)

So, I’m thinking, if soufflés, why not Mom?

Letting my ever-overamped imagination run wild, I was thinking that Uber could develop an application called “Find My Mother.” Mom wanders away from The Home and son is alerted by the Escape Alarm on his phone that she is no longer tied to her bed. Son presses his new GoGetHer app which immediately gives a GPS location on Mom who presumably has her phone in a little velvet carry bag around her neck. (OK, you may have to microchip her.) The Uber driver swoops in, puts mom in the car (hopefully she goes quietly) and returns me, er, her to The Facility, courtesy of the “If found, please return to” app on Mom’s phone. Avoids that whole embarrassing evening news thing. Never mind that son didn’t even have to blink during his office Power Point presentation.

Now, as a senior, I think these Uber applications should go both ways. Don’t like the nursing home your kids have stashed you in? Before you make a break for it, you install an override app on your phone with special instructions to the rideshare driver: DON’T TAKE ME BACK TO THAT PLACE! LEAVE ME AT THE DOWNTOWN TRAIN STATION AND CHARGE A ONE-WAY TICKET TO SAN FRANCISCO ON MY CREDIT CARD. THEN THROW THE PHONE IN THE BAY. Like, we have rights too.

Now that I’m on Medicare, issues of aging occupy a lot of my brain cells. Olof thinks they would probably be better spent on memory exercises. The important thing is, I’m pretty sure I have a car.

 

 

When Christmas Is A Parallel Universe

["Let Inga Tell You,"  La Jolla Light, published January 8, 2024] 2024

It becomes increasingly worrisome to me that I couldn't identify half of the Christmas gifts that were exchanged Christmas morning, even ones that I gave.

Fortunately, I didn't have to know what they were. This is what Christmas lists are for. The grandchild or other relative wants this thing? OK, I'm game.

What does it do? I'd ask with genuine interest (and a nagging fear that the world has passed me by) as they oohed and aahed over it.

But then, I am a person who doesn't want any gift that comes with instructions. As I have often chronicled, I have enough trouble operating my iPhone. In fact, a regular source of entertainment at family Christmas gatherings is passing around my phone and laughing at the directions taped to the back. But at least I don't have to worry about someone picking up my phone by mistake.

Christmas is always my favorite holiday of the year, made even more special in that it includes a good-sized group of relatives both from our side plus my daughter-in-law's. A genuinely congenial group.

Fortunately, during gift opening, I was seated next to my daughter-in-law's mother, a truly kindred soul. As a gift was opened, I'd lean over and whisper, Do you know what that is? And she'd whisper back, "Not a clue."

One such item was a gift I gave my 14-year-old granddaughter from her wish list which was described as a Luxury Intensive Skin Treatment Candle. So, was this some kind of skin treatment, or a candle? Turns out it was both. As the fine print, which I hadn't bothered to read in my haste to get my Christmas shopping done, noted: "Nourishing cocoa butter is blended with soybean oil and almond oil to leave the skin smooth and silky, whilst delivering therapeutic benefits for the mind and body. After blowing out the candle, the wax reaches the perfect temperature for application on to skin."

It is also "100% natural, ethically sourced and finely crafted from sustainable origins with absolutely no artificial ingredients." Which, along with using the word "whilst", explains why it is $46. But it made her happy so it made me happy.

One gift that totally stymied me was a bunch of colorful reels of something. Turns out they are printer "food"  for a hobbyist-level 3D printer.

I'm still trying to get my head around a desktop robot pet my nine-year-old grandson desperately coveted. Apparently these things are hugely popular and come in all forms and prices. Thinking this was going to be an easy purchase, I was dismayed to go on Amazon and find the little critters priced from $29 to $500. (I went on the lower end.) According to the description, these robots are "the perfect companion for both kids and adults who love pets, with abundant emotions, idle animations, and interactive features."   No idea what any of that actually means. Should I mention that my grandchildren have actual real pets? With, presumably, emotions (they're dogs)? But my grandson was elated to now be able to share the emotional life of an inanimate object.

I didn't buy this next one, but one of the uber-health-conscious family members received a Smart Ring, an actual fashion accessory ring loaded on its inside with teeny weeny electronics that you wear on your finger 24/7 and tracks, well, pretty much everything. Waterproof, it monitors sleep quality, stress index, heart health, skin temperature, body movement etc. which is then presumably sent to your equally-smart phone? It s apparently way better than those clunky passé  smart watches. The Smart Ring alleges to track every movement you make which in my case, would be tracking all the moves I wasn't making. I don't need a Smart Ring (or watch) to abuse me about my weight. I have a primary care doctor for that, and she doesn't need re-charging.

Another grandchild received an easy-to-operate drone. My son and his wife, who host Christmas, moved several months ago to a house with lots of outdoor space which their previous home was woefully lacking. Anyway, when out taking a walk shortly after the move, they noticed the next-door neighbor leaving his home and said to each other, "Um, is that ...?"   Turns out a very famous but now elderly movie star lives next door. When the drone gift was opened, my daughter-in-law's mother leaned in and whispered, "Not sure how the neighbor is going to feel about drones circling over his house. Or about letting kids come over and retrieve it after it crashes into his patio."  This may be a gift that only gets used at the local public park.

I confess that every time someone opened a present that I could actually name, I felt a huge sense of relief. It was starting to feel like I was in a sci fi movie in a parallel universe but which fortunately still served the same totally recognizable and utterly fabulous Christmas dinner. When I can no longer identify what we re eating, I'm calling it quits.

                                                        These reels are "food" for a 3D printer

 

 

The Great Refrigerator Delivery Water Valve Scam

[ "Let Inga Tell You,"  La Jolla Light, published December 11, 2023] 2023

I recently wrote about how much poorer the quality of kitchen appliances has become, the compensation being a lot of useless features that many people (that would be me) don't even want. This column inspired surprising numbers of emails from readers, some volunteering that their washers or dryers actually play annoying little ditties when the load is done. Frankly, I would probably have destroyed the thing with a sledge hammer the first week. I will not be sung to by appliances.

But one topic I didn't get to address in that column was the Great Refrigerator Delivery Water Valve Scam. AARP definitely needs to add this one to their list.

Refrigerator deliveries in my home have, alas, always been fraught with peril. When my first husband and I bought our 1947 home in the 1970s, the kitchen still featured the original ugly Formica-afflicted 1947 kitchen except for the appliances.

It never occurred to us that refrigerators back in 1947 might be smaller than those made in the 1970s. Let me assure you that they were.

The delivery guys managed to wrangle the fridge into our small kitchen only to discover that it wouldn't fit under the cabinet. So they just plugged it in - the cord was barely long enough - and abandoned it in the middle of our kitchen floor. After some pondering, my husband got out a hacksaw and sawed off the bottom of the cheap pine 1947 cabinet just enough so that we could push the refrigerator underneath it.

And that's how it stayed until we remodeled the kitchen in 1999. Desperate to see the end of gray linoleum (the evil twin of gray Formica), we (I was on my second husband by then) had decided to match the red oak floors from the rest of the house into the kitchen. They came out beautifully. Sanded, Urethaned, and gleaming, they were ready for the delivery of our new refrigerator under its custom cabinet designed to make sure we wouldn't have any height problems again. Not making that mistake twice!

What we didn't count on was the appliance delivery guys not having a strong enough dolly, and hence putting a six-foot-long gouge right across our brand-new floors. The floors had to be completely re-sanded and finished.

As I described in my previous column, that refrigerator, the last of the 1999 remodel appliances, crossed the chill-chest rainbow bridge over Labor Day weekend. Refrigerators have gotten bigger and deeper since 1999 and finding something that would fit into our very defined space and be able to make it through our dining area into the kitchen was problematical at best. We measured our little hearts out and knew this was going to be a matter of under an inch for it to make it. I wasn't sure what we were going to do if it didn't.

The appliance guys showed up, did their own measurements, and declared that we had a full half-inch to spare. Whew! Home free!

BUT as the appliance guys go to move the old fridge from the wall, one of them says, "Hmmm, not going to be able to deliver today, folks. The water valve [for the ice maker] is frozen and I can't turn it off.  You re going to have to call a plumber and have them replace it."

And, pfft! They were gone, our new fridge still on the truck. I was beyond annoyed. Did we truly have such terrible refrigerator karma that three out of three deliveries failed?

Our plumber graciously came right over and immediately declared, "This is such a scam. I see it all the time. This valve turns just fine."   He shows me. "They just wanted to go home early."

I tried to see if I could get the delivery guys back since our refrigerator was still on their truck, but they said they had already re-scheduled us for three days - and a different crew, notably not them - later.

The few days was a Friday afternoon definitely prime time for wanting to go home early so I was fully rehearsed and ready to pre-empt any delaying scripts the new crew might have. I explained the previous delivery situation and emphasized, politely but firmly, with just a slight homicidal air, that this refrigerator would be installed today. And it was.

But here s the interesting part. I mentioned this story to a friend who has multiple rental properties and she said that both times she had had refrigerators delivered, she'd gotten the water valve story too. Have to get a plumber, they'd told her. See ya!

Regaling my physical therapy guy with this story a day later, he suddenly stopped and said, "We had a new refrigerator delivered last month and they did that to us too!"

So, this my public service message. If you re getting a refrigerator delivered and it has an ice maker (which, alas, almost all of them do), try turning that valve yourself before the miscreants come. The thought of thwarting the miserable buggers would warm my heart.

 

 

 

Chocolates Are Good But A Hose Caddy Is Forever

[“Let Inga Tell You,” La Jolla Light, published November 27, 2023] ©2023

In December, my birth month, I can’t help but reflect that birthday gifts from spouses can be fraught with peril. 

Not to speak ill of the dead, but my first husband was notorious for getting me gifts that he wanted me to have rather than anything I actually wanted.  We moved to Colorado early in our marriage, close to weekend skiing, and he was sure that if I gave skiing a chance, I’d love it.  Because he loved it. Given that I hated both cold weather and heights, loving it was optimistic.  But this didn’t prevent him from buying me a complete set of ski equipment for my birthday, including skis, poles, and boots.  Did I mention it was all on sale, and non-returnable? And that we were really poor at the time and this was a really big investment that he knew I couldn’t let go to waste? (OK, now I’m speaking ill of the dead.)  Please, he implored, would I just go five times now that I owned all this equipment that I never wanted in the first place?  And to my credit, I did.  And the next day, it was all listed on a ski re-sale board.

Meanwhile, several years ago, when my second husband, Olof, asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I didn’t hesitate to request a top-of-the-line sewer auger.

Now, this might suggest that the romance has gone out of the relationship or worse, could be considered a dismal metaphorical condemnation of our union.

But no, I really really wanted my very own sewer auger.

We live in a house that was built by the lowest bidder after the war with all non-square corners and apparently without benefit of building materials that had become scarce during The Conflict.  It is our only explanation for the shoddy construction.  An abundance of pipe-invading trees and shrubs had kept us on speed dial to our local plumber. 

But often the problem was our kitchen sink which could be cleared ourselves (that’s the royal “ourselves”) with a good sewer auger, which just happened to belong to our neighbors.  They were very nice about lending it to us as needed but after a certain point, I began to fantasize about the luxury of having our own.

You’d think Olof (the “ourselves” mentioned above) would have been deliriously happy with this idea but was instead horrified.  He did not feel that a birthday auger augured well for our marriage. 

“Not a snowball’s chance,” he replied. “Besides, aren’t you the one who complained that your first husband got you stuff for your birthday that was really for him?” he said.

“Yup,” I said, “Skis, and box seats to a Chargers games.

“And what happened?” he continued.

“I’m now married to you,” I said.

“Exactly.  It is against the Code of Husbands to get a wife a sewer auger for her birthday,” he maintained. 

“But not if that’s what I want,” I said.  “I didn’t ski and I hated football.”

 “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head.  “This wife birthday thing is a mine field. There’s nothing more terrifying to a guy except Valentine’s Day.”

“But I’m serious,” I said.  “It would warm my heart the next time the sink backs up on a Saturday night” – it’s always a Saturday night – “that ‘we’ could just wheel in our Ferrari-of-sewer-augers and have at it.”

“This is a second marriage for both of us,” Olof reminded me.  “I like to think I’ve learned something.  Buying a wife a sewer auger for her birthday would be a classic rookie husband mistake.  I once bought my first wife a really expensive vacuum cleaner for her birthday.”

“And what happened?” I said.

“I’m now married to you.”

“Well, I’d consider a vacuum cleaner grounds for divorce too.”

“OK,” said Olof, “I’m willing to buy you the sewer auger of your dreams but you can’t have it within even two months of your birthday.  So you’re going to have to think of something else.”

“I also really want a hose caddy.” I suggested.  “The kind that’s mounted on the house that I can just crank up.  The hose in the back is making me crazy.”

“Inga,” he said, exasperated.  “I can’t get you a hose caddy for your birthday any more than I can get you a sewer auger.”

“Well, I really do need a new salad spinner too. “

“No! NOTHING PRACTICAL!  It’s your birthday!  I have no desire to be married a third time.”

“The hose caddy could be for Christmas,” I suggested.  “Remember, it includes installation.”

“Surely there is something totally frivolous with no practical value that you want?” he implored. 

And that’s how I got a two-pound box of Godiva chocolates for my birthday.  And magically, a deluxe sewer auger, a hose caddy, and a salad spinner appeared from an anonymous donor a few weeks later.  I couldn’t have been happier. 

 

 

 

500th Column: Inga vs. Chatgpt. Will AI Put Me Out Of Business?

["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published November 20, 2023] 2023

For my 500^th Let Inga Tell You column (yes, it really is), I had to ask myself: could I have saved a lot of time if the AI bot Chatgpt had come out sooner? Inquiring minds (mine) really wanted to know.

So I thought I'd give us the same topic - in this case, being the family worrier - and ask Chatgpt to write 300 words on being the family worrier in the style of Let Inga Tell You. I mean, Chat only had 490+ examples of my style to work from including one on this exact topic.

So here s Chat's version of me:

Oh, let me tell you all about being the family worrier. You see, I was born with the uncanny ability to take any situation and twist it into a potential catastrophe. It's not a title I asked for, mind you, but it's one I wear with a certain degree of pride. You might call me Inga, but around these parts, they call me the Worrier-in-Chief.

From the moment I wake up to the moment I close my eyes at night, my mind is a whirlwind of anxious thoughts and fretful pondering.

My family, bless their hearts, has learned to take my worrisome tendencies in stride. They've developed a sort of Worrier-to-English dictionary to decipher my cryptic statements. When I say, "I heard a strange noise outside," they know it means, "The apocalypse is imminent, and we should start stockpiling canned goods." And when I ask, "Do you think the dog looks a little lethargic today?" they understand that it translates to, "We must rush Fido to the vet immediately before he contracts a rare and deadly canine disease."

In many ways, being the family worrier is a heavy burden to bear. My sleepless nights and racing thoughts can be exhausting, and I often feel like a one-woman anxiety factory. But there's a silver lining in all of this, you know. My penchant for worrying has made me the most prepared person you'll ever meet. I've got a first-aid kit that could rival a small hospital, a pantry stocked to survive the next ice age, and a network of emergency contacts that would put a superhero's rolodex to shame.

So, while my family might roll their eyes and chuckle at my constant state of worry, they also know that when the chips are down, I'll be the one with a plan, a flashlight, and a stash of chocolate bars to get us through any crisis. And for that, they're grateful even if they have to endure my never-ending fretting along the way.

Here, meanwhile, is a segment from my June 15, 2023 Let Inga Tell You column entitled "The family worrier":

Anxiety disorders run in my family. That's why I was interested in an article in the San Diego Union-Tribune a while back entitled "Mulling the worst: One therapist's anxiety fix."  Her solution for combating anxiety is to imagine the worst that could happen and then, she's decided in her inexplicably delusional way, you will realize that even the worst isn't that bad.

Um, seriously?

I'm sure this therapist is a very nice lady but I can only assume she s been out of graduate school for a matter of days. We worriers are world-class catastrophic thinkers. In all modesty, it's where we excel.

For example, she says, if your kid is anxious about missing the soccer ball during a game, you should sit down with him and ask, would that so terrible?

Hell yes! The other kids on the team will probably never let him forget it, teasing him about it in perpetuity. If they lose the game, it will be his fault. His teammates will nickname him Klutzoid, a moniker that will stick with him into his octogenarian years. The coach will stop playing him, and any hope he will ever have at playing up to the next level is permanently shot. Someone will post it on Facebook where it will be immortalized forever and played at his wedding. So, not so bad ? Hah! I don t think so!

From time to time my husband Olof has tried to convince me that the worrying itself was not the reason an event went well but my thorough planning. But then, what does he know?

OK, there s some admittedly catchy phrases in Chat s version. But seriously, this is how Chatgpt thinks I sound? I'm a tad offended. Chat's version seemed a tad bland. Sort of like, well, a bot wrote it.

And in the 400,000 words of my oeuvre that Chat had to model me from, did I ever once use the word fret ? I do not fret. I whine. There is a big difference.

So, am I in danger of being put out of business by Chatgpt? You tell me.

 My own conclusion: Find your own voice, AI. This one s mine.

 

 

They Don't Make 'Em Like They Used To

[ Let Inga Tell You, La Jolla Light, published November 13, 2023] 2023

In 1999 we remodeled our tiny 1947 kitchen. It was a huge boon to have more than a single 100-watt light bulb, to have a dishwasher that you didn't have to roll over to the sink, and to be forever rid of gray Formica.

What we didn't realize is that whatever appliances we installed in that space would forever determine the ones we could replace them with. Now, 24 years later, the last of those appliances has crumped, and we were once again faced with the reality that few of the world s now-preferred appliances will fit in our allowable space. You can't shave a half-inch off a granite counter top.

It has not helped that the quality of appliances seems to have really tanked in the intervening years. And in its place, they're loaded with annoying features that we don't even want.

Our new microwave, for example, is the exact same manufacturer and size as its predecessor but weighs only half as much and literally slides around when you push its cheap little buttons. (We had to anchor it down.) Its flimsy glass plate keeps falling off the rotation wheels. But worst is its Perpetual Perseveration feature, tragically common in new appliances, that will beep in perpetuity once that cup of instant coffee is heated up. It's like it's having a giant snit: "You made me nuke this and now I'm going to annoy the sh-t out of you until you come and get it!"

I wrote a while back about our friends dryer that had an auto "wrinkle control" feature that fluffed up a load of dried clothes every 30 seconds until the door was opened. The friends went on vacation to Europe having put clothes in the dryer before they left. It was still fluffing when they returned six weeks later. My new-ish dryer, alas, does that too.

And then there s my three-year-old washing machine which made it into its allotted space in our small garage-less house by literally an eighth of an inch. Over-zealous sensors that have proliferated on washing machines are in a category all their own. My machine wants to self-balance (unlike my previous machines whose self-balancer was me) but if there is anything in there heavier than underwear, it is scientifically designed to shift everything to one side then sound like it is agitating a bowling ball. The machine literally flails around like a mechanical bull with a broken speed control. Unsupervised, the machine could end up in our bedroom. Seriously, the only individual more scared of this machine than the dog is me. 

Additionally, if you wash sheets in it, it has a built-in Self-Tangle feature that knots them up into a tight poly-cotton rope requiring serious untangling before you can move them to the dryer.

The dryer, meanwhile, has its own feature, Auto-Clump, that will wrap every individually-separated item in a load of bedding into in a large ball inside the bottom sheet. The bottom sheet itself will be dry but its entire contents will be completely sodden. I had the same dryer for 44 years and it never did that once.

When our kitchen range failed during the pandemic, we were stuck with the only 30-inch white slide-in gas range available west of the Mississippi (maybe east of it too). It had a thousand dollars of features we didn't want and would never use, including consuming most of the cooktop real estate with a grill that advertised that it could hold "six grilled cheese sandwiches!"  Which is six more than we'd ever make. 

Right before Labor Day weekend, in keeping with the Universal Perversity Postulate that states that critical appliances only break right before major holiday weekends when you have guests coming, our 24-year refrigerator, the last of our 1999 remodel appliances, crossed the chill-chest rainbow bridge. It turned out there were exactly three choices for a white "counter-depth" refrigerator that would fit in our very defined space. Mysteriously, the new fridge has only half the freezer space as its identically-sized predecessor, but only partly because of a door dispenser that we didn't want but were stuck with. On the fridge side, there is a single dim light at the very top, which, alas, cannot be upgraded to something with actual wattage, and which blocks light to everything below it as soon as you put something on the top shelf. Nobody should need a flashlight to find the mayo. And did I mention that I have managed to live into my golden years without a door alarm that won't shut up before you've even put half your groceries away?

With every one of our replacement appliances, you need to close them ever so gently so their entire tinny selves won't shake. You're afraid the doors will fall off their chintzy chassis.

So here s the career that I'd like to see: an appliance person who specializes in disabling all the stupid features on appliances. Bowling Ball-rebalancing and Malicious Snits. Forever Fluff and Robo-Beep. Self-Tangle and Auto-Clump. Underwhelming Wattage and Door Alarm Dingers.

They wouldn't be able to keep up with demand.

Our dryer's Auto-Clump feature stuffs an entire load of bedding inside the bottom sheet where it remains wet