You know when you are 16, and have a crappy 1971 VW Bug, and the starter is going out, because each morning you try to start it and it is getting harder and harder and harder, but you don't have the time or the cash to fix it and so you wait and then the one day you REALLY have to be on time, and it doesn't start? That is our fridge, minus the bumper stickers and ash tray full of lip balm and spare change.
Each morning, we go into the kitchen for our morning harass-kids-to-get-out-of-bed-make-breakfast-feed-kids-make-lunches routine which involves 27 fridge openings. Our beautiful fridge that was new when we moved in 4 years ago does not like our routine. And I'm all, "Hey, at least you just have to keep our food cold, try actually living this life. Just shut up and be our stupid fridge. If I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it."
Each time we open it, it gets slightly warmer, which makes the thermostat do it's thermostat-y job, which causes the motor to kick on to cool the whole thing, to keep up with our constant opening and closing. It does not like this, and wants to curl into a ball and die, preferably as soon as it is full of Christmas cheer. I'm on to you, fridge.
Our preemptive strike was to call our landlord, tell them what was happening and give sound effects over the phone. But Sky King called, so they didn't get the cool sound effects. Sorry, landlord. Sky King has no imagination.
The fixer dude comes out, and he has to pull it away from the wall. At which put I begin to feel slightly self-conscious, because I do not clean behind the fridge. Well, that is not entirely true. I DO clean behind the fridge, each time I move out of a place and take the fridge with me. But not like on some strange cleaning rotation like organized people sometimes do. No, seriously, I hear that this happens.
He pulls the fridge back, and this is what we see:
In this pile of filth, there is: 2 magnets, 1 coupon good for 3 free Parmesan twists with any pizza order at Round Table Pizza, 3 pounds of broken glass from all the stuff
Now, the entire point of this post is centered around one question.
Do I retrieve the dimes?
The answer, of course, is yes. But not because of some stupid reason like "defacing money is a crime" or "a penny saved is a penny earned" or "the fixer dude will totally swipe it".
I lean over, scrape one off the floor which was almost permanently embedded in dust goo, and sweep the other up, risking life and limb while I sift through the broken glass to retrieve it. Because it is bad Juju to throw away money.
Many years ago (way back in the mid-1990's when I had moved to Tulsa OK to be close to my then-boyfriend who was going to flight school) I had another opportunity to clean. I don't remember it specifically, I am just assuming there was an opportunity to clean, because there was a garbage can involved. No, you can't come study my home for a reality show about bacteria.
I was emptying/cleaning a drawer,
I crunch up one of my eyes and the corner of my mouth snarls, as if to say, "wha?". He very calmly explains to never ever ever ever ever consciously throw away even a penny, because Karma will know, write it down in a little book, and remember for when you ask for a raise at work. Or something like that.
This is why I end up coating my fingers with $.23 worth of antibiotic cream and $.71 worth of bandages for 3 pennies.
Karma, you are a vengeful bitch.
And what happened to the two dimes?
There they are. We are $.20 closer to DisneyWorld. Or a house we don't rent. Or a pack of smokes, from back when we smoked, but really couldn't afford to.
Where will I put them?
Into the junk drawer full of push pins, old razor blades, and broken parts, of course. Excuse me, into ONE OF OUR JUNK DRAWERS. Because we have 5. I'm rounding down.
Because I never learn.