Inanimate Basterds

stress image

One of my neighbours caught me cursing out a garden tool the other day. She was walking up the cul-de-sac by our front lawn where I was unleashing a stream of multi-syllabic invective not typically heard outside of an Eddie Murphy concert.

It was embarrassing but not shameful. I reserve the right to vent my spleen, within my property lines, on any object that refuses to cooperate.

In this case it was a garden trimmer. I hate these things, I truly do. Good friends are smiling as they read this because they know I have already destroyed a previous trimmer in a fit of fury at the foot of the driveway. I just smashed it to smithereens. (Such a good word ‘smithereens’, isn’t it?) I got caught by another neighbour on that one too. He stared for a moment and then carefully and quietly backed into his garage.

I consider myself at war with inanimate objects. There’s a hit list in my mind and if I could do away with them all, I would. The garden trimmer is public enemy number one. When the plastic line is not snagging,  it is winding up on itself and disappearing into the spool. I can feel my systolic pressure rising as I write this.

The garden hose which refuses to uncoil in a civilized fashion has been mocking me for years. I bought a new hose that was supposed to be kink-free but after hanging it up in the garage beside the other one it simply learned all of the bad habits. Hoses talk to to each other, you know, when we’re not looking.

There is a built-in cutting board in our kitchen which is always blocking my route to a critical drawer. It knows I need something in there, waits until my back is turned..and then slides out.

Don’t get me started on the small hand soap pump that is always diving into the sink. Some would say it is only signalling that it needs a refill to keep it more stable…Please! Stop making excuses for it. I know better.

The list goes on… tools that nip, ladders that shift, the garbage container lid that, ignoring its hinges, clatters to the floor every time.

Each of these objects knows exactly how I feel. I have tried to be patient. I have taken the high road. I am supposed to be the rational, breathing entity in the equation but, like that damn, ever-clogged Dijon mustard bottle, they continue to spit in my face (or on my shirt) at every turn.

So it’s no more Mr. Nice Guy. Some day, as God is my witness, I will purge them all. I will smash the trimmer and segment the hose.  I will take that cracked wooden toilet seat that daily bites me in the ass and spin it off into space without a moment’s regret.

I just hope you’re not there to see it. And if you are…back quietly away.


6 Responses to “Inanimate Basterds”

  1. Mike Hutchison Says:

    Smashing a misbehaving, truculent inanimate object can be considered ‘therapeutic’! It’s cheaper than those “chest thumping, in touch with your inner caveman” weekends! It’s only concerning when it involves gasoline and fire…
    Caught you on 1410 this morning with Simi, it was good to hear you two banter back and forth 🙂

  2. Suzanne Barton Says:

    I heard you telling Simi about this on my way to work yesterday.

    I had just taken a sip of my morning tea and nearly spat it all back out when I burst out laughing!

    What a great way to start my day!

  3. Dawn Bennett Says:

    I have been having a running battle with my garden hose for 2 years now. Yes, it’s supposed to be the kind that doesn’t kink but I think that’s just marketing BS. They all kink, and at the worst possible time. My hose also lies in waiting so that it can trip me as I’m going down the stairs. I try not to take it personally but I swear it’s out to get me. I don’t think I’m being paranoid but everybody else does.

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