Someone Keeps Smashing My Icons

When Johnny first came home from a college course early in his education and told me about planned obsolescence, I not only didn't believe him, I disagreed with him vehemently. "That's crazy; people take pride in their work; they'd want it to last forever." Not only has personal experience over the last 40 years proved him correct, I now believe that the demise of appliances/apparatuses happens so prematurely that one could safely say they all come with their own built-in spontaneous abortion.
In just the last month, my vacuum cleaner quick sucking, my carpet shampooer quit sucking, and the door at the H&W building quit closing on its own. Deciding it was high time to have my chimney cleaned because for the past three years, I have relied heavily on heat from my wood burning stove--in fact my kitchen and my bedroom where the heat rises are the only rooms warm enough to survive without triple-layered thermals, I called a chimney sweep. I joked a few times about how lucky I would be to have a visit from a chimney sweep--chim chim cheree. Not only didn't he levitate to my roof top, he did present me with evidence of a chimney fire and told me tiles were broken on five different levels and I needed a thirty five hundred dollar chimney repair. He also told me two thousand dollars would pay him to clean up the carcases in the crawl space under my house. (Squirrels, rabbits, cats, and bats.)
I called another chimney sweep and he says he can't see any cracks but won't put his reputation and liability on the line to assure me I don't need the chimney repair. So, I've decided to put it off at least for a few months. And the mighty hunter of all things weird and gross, yes, I'm talking about Jaren, has volunteered to excavate my pet cemetery when he comes at Christmas. I've mentally put about six thousand dollars back in my dubious budget. Good trick, since it wasn't there in the first place.
My bedroom has undergone a transformation since it became the only habitable place in my house during the winter. I've moved in Johnny's huge desk with computer, printer, stereo, etc. I've moved in a small table and sewing machine and all the accouterments that go with sewing. I have a large canvas for the placing of the names of ancestors in a huge pedigree chart--the names aren't there yet but the concept and canvas are. And I have a camping area on the floor for sweet little grandchildren who want to stay overnight. Literally there now exists only a walking trail through my bedroom. But if CPS were to come in, I'd be safe because I could shew the children to their own home, and there are no pet droppings upstairs (just in the crawl space, I'm told.)
This information is relevant to the next event in the corruption of my belongings. A little over a week ago, intending to enjoy a nice leisurely bath, I was dismayed when my hot water would not turn off. I went through all the machinations with good rather than nefarious intent. I dismantled the faux crystal knob getting down to the all important sticky up thingy which I plied with all my strength. I finally got it to the point where it was only dripping one drop per second. I even hammered on the all important thingy but could not do better than one drop per second. Drat--now I need a plumber, but I don't want to pay a plumber and I can't have a plumber walk through my bedroom without a major rehaul. (That would consist of hauling everything into another room because it has no other home and has to live in my bedroom until Jaren writes a best seller and I can once again afford heat.) I decided to procrastinate that decision. However, the next bath came and now my faucet is dripping at three drops per second.
Also, I was sick last week so cleaning my room was out of the question. Actually cleaning is completely out of the question, I just have to wait until I decide I've poured enough money down the drain that I'm going to swallow my pride and call a plumber.
I was born bare foot and have never found an inducement to wear shoes in my own home inside or out. Therefore my feet regularly get filthy. When this gets bad, I quickly jump in my bathtub, turn on the hot water, scrub my feet with a loofah on a stick and jump back out again. Sunday, I was nearly ready for church when I decided that in spite of a bath the night before, my feet needed a rewash before I put on my shoes to go out the door. I jumped in the bath tub and before both feet hit the porcelain remembered that I could not turn on the hot water; there was not enough time to turn it off. With a little groan at the loss of a creature comfort, I looked down at another creature. There was a monsterous hobo spider in my bath tub. (I thought those suckers couldn't climb upstairs.) I quickly jumped back out of the tub. When I told Jaren about the event, he wanted to know if I did a tuck and roll. I did one once when I saw a hobo in the big room and though it was probably my greatest move ever, I didn't repeat it at this time. I thought it made a lot more sense to get out of the bath tub rather than roll around in the tub with the hobo. I dashed out of the bathroom and grabbed an empty cardboard roll out of a Christmas wrapping paper package and went back and beat that hobo, and beat that hobo, and beat that hobo and then flushed the slick down the toilet.
Did I mention that the turn-off valve to my water is down in the crawl space?