“When the wheels touch ground; And you feel like it's all over; There's another round for you”

I sit on our bed, the scent of a cozy “Warm Lux Cashmere” candle floats in the air. “Grey’s Anatomy” plays on the flat screen TV in front of me. I lean against a couple of pillows listening to the episode as I scour the internet via my laptop for a worthwhile cadence sensor for the spin bike. The one I have just received refuses to sync with my cell phone and despite twelve hours of effort, I’m frustrated. Plus, in my search, I learn the newest model, which is conveniently on the dresser with the phone, to the left of me, has a collection of horrible reviews. I’m reading the umpteenth opinion when I hear, “is the dishwasher supposed to have this much water in it?” He calls from the kitchen having just opened the door to a clean load. I hear the door close.

“Fuck.”

Putting the laptop off to the side and pausing the TV show, I walk to the kitchen trying to think of nothing in particular. Maybe we had a power hit. Maybe a fuse flipped.

I reach the dishwasher and the control panel is not lit, but that is nothing unusual. I push the buttons at random. Nothing lights up. Fuck.

I offer the idea that maybe something blew the fuse. I walk toward the basement, pulling open the door. As I flip the light switch and head down the stairs, my “fucks” became louder and more intense. At the bottom of the stairs, I’m all but yelling “Fuck!”

The lights in the finished basement are dim, presenting a Zen-like ambience, if it weren’t for my insistent and manic “FUCK!” broadcasts. I reach the fuse box to see all the switches are in perfect order. My mantra instantly changes to a run-on thought: “That’s it – I’m done being an adult – I don’t want to play anymore – First it’s the basement flooding, last week it’s the fridge, and now it’s the dishwasher – We’re selling the house and moving south – This homeowner stuff is for the birds – I quit – This is stupid.”

I march up the stairs, flipping off the light switches as I pass them. He meets me at the top of the stairs. “Is the basement alright?”

I look at him quizzically.

“You can’t yell ‘FUCK’ in the basement. You did that when the basement flooded. I thought something was wrong, like it flooded again. You just took five years off my life.”

I laugh.

Epilogue: The next morning as we walk into Home Depot, he tells me he wants another black dishwasher. I argue “we’re getting stainless steel because it’ll help the house sell faster. That’s what people want. And I want to go south. And commuting to work will be a pain, but I’ll figure it out.”

The stainless-steel dishwasher was delivered on Thursday.