There seems to be a robot uprising happening in my house...

Translation: And I'm hoping it's not of the "Maximum Overdrive" variety.

Over the course of the past few weeks I've noticed my house has been lacking it's usual "joie de vivre" coziness and instead has embraced an "all humans must die" mantra. Unfortunately the machines that seem to be eager to kill all humanoids look nothing like this:


Shirley Manson is the only killer robot I want in my house

And everything like this:


What a terrifying...dishwasher?

Yeah...about that...so this ridiculously overpriced (sorry Mom but it totally is) piece of equipment seems to no longer fall under human command. During its cycle, it beeps incessantly (perhaps to alert the other machines that the day is coming!!!). Short beeps, long beeps, blips, blops, whatever...it's a certain form of Morse code that is signaling impending doom. I have a feeling it makes certain it switches off the antibacterial mode during every wash to make sure we die a slow, painful, crusty plate filled death. That is, when the thing actually chooses to start. For the most part, I liken the dishwasher to a 73 Ford Pinto...if you can get it to start, it's a damn miracle.

Then there's our mammoth GE fridge with freezer drawer. I wanted a bowl of ice cream the other day, and although I am freakishly strong, I damn near burst through the carton while scooping my french vanilla goodness. Upon checking, the freezer had switched from the optimum setting of -2, to 32 degrees. My ice cream melty, lean cuisines not so...cuisiney, frozen ground beef and chicken, a breeding ground of evil and dysentery...

Damn...I thought this could only happen in Oregon, circa 1848?

Now, on the other side of the coin, this brings me to a machine that seems to want to work TOO well for our own good...the dreaded thermostat (gasp! the horror!). The other day it was unusually cold in the house, and my mother noticed the thermostat had reset itself thinking 30 degrees Fahrenheit was an appropriate temperature for a house to be. Perhaps if you are made of steel (I knew it was in cahoots with the freezer)? Yesterday, it's chosen temperature for a 3 story house was 60 degrees. Apparently it wanted to meet us in the middle, but only if the dishwasher didn't find out. I beg you for compassion, thermostat, I have but feeble, thin Texan blood...I need HEAT.

Which brings us to another piece of fine luxury living you should feel comforted by- the fireplace. I am terrified of the fireplace. Anything that constantly has a pilot light of a one foot diameter burning and can be flipped on with a switch- that just seems deadly. God forbid you accidentally, ahem, break wind, while flipping the switch- you could be a goner. Up in flames!

However, the fireplace is encased in glass. Because rich people want to be able to see through the flames without feeling the warmth, of course. It's the fancy alternative to just lighting your money on fire and watching it burn from 100 feet away. I digress... The glass hotbox of death was in terrible shape when my parents found this house. Apparently, the thing was a tomb of torture to birds who found their way in through the flue, but never could get back out...as my mother described it, I thought of the scene as something along the lines of "Saw 85- This One's for the Birds."

Bottom line- I only feel safe in my room with the trusty old laptop and vintage Sony. These machines are too old to have the wherewithal to want me dead. Plus they're on the second floor so I am fairly certain the aforementioned Terminators haven't gotten to them yet...