Hubby and I just returned from two weeks of vacation—one week in picturesque Vermont, followed by another for our Grandson’s high school graduation in Cincinnati, Ohio. It was a lovely getaway, with an emphasis on “getting away” from our emotionally unstable house. (Details below.)

First stop: Vermont, the epitome of what one envisions when thinking of New England—quaint small towns, Mom and Pop businesses, historical sites, covered bridges, nature, and glorious green mountains. You know what we didn’t see? Civilization. No McDonald’s, no Walmart, no Starbucks. We did spot two Dollar Generals on our extensive exploration of the southern part of the state, but that’s hardly enough to supply my shoebox ministry unless I’m only filling one box. (Good thing I don’t live there full time.) I didn’t know any towns still existed without a Walmart. We also lucked out by visiting during the off-season, which meant we pretty much had the resort to ourselves. Since we didn’t go to Vermont for the skiing, that worked fine for us.

Then we headed to Cincinnati, where we celebrated Grandson’s ten seconds of fame in his graduating class of 650 students. Give or take. I stopped counting. For those ten seconds, we had to undergo a screening process worse than airport security (and you thought there was nothing worse!) and sit through three hours of ceremony. And since they didn’t call students in alphabetical order, we couldn’t slip out after the “F’s.”

Cincinnati had its ups and downs, some of which may become a future blog post titled, “Why did we think this would be relaxing? And fun?” But it’s always good to see family, even if you’re ready to leave after thirty minutes.

Then we came home. To a flooded kitchen. The hose to the icemaker burst sometime while we were gone, turning our kitchen and downstairs into a water park—minus the lazy river and $9 hot dogs. Our sweet pet sitter tried her best to contain the mess, but since she didn’t know where all the water was coming from, she just kept mopping like a one-woman bucket brigade.

Now, I did think to turn off the water to the washer, but it never occurred to me to pull out the refrigerator for the first time in two decades and turn off the water to the icemaker. Who thinks of this scenario? Psychics, maybe? Of course, after pulling the refrigerator out and witnessing the whole ecosystem that has lived in our kitchen and may now be eligible for protected wildlife status, I almost shoved it back and listed the house for “as-is” on Zillow.

But this incident got me to thinking. This isn’t the first time we’ve come home to disaster. Last summer, the same woman watched our pets, and we returned to a broken air conditioner and a 90-degree house at midnight. I asked her if she hadn’t noticed the sauna-like conditions, and she shrugged and said, “I thought you kept it hot for the birds.” No, not quite THAT hot. We live in a house, not a tropical aviary.

I would be tempted to suspect our pet sitter of sabotaging the house to get back at us for having to care for our ill-behaved pets. But previously, we had a different pet sitter, and our freezer died. The poor man tried to rescue our frozen food by bagging it up and taking it home with him. I’m not sure we’ll ever be able to convince anyone to pet-sit for us again, and it’s not just because of our ill-behaved pets.

Now, I’m starting to wonder if our house is trying to tell us something, like, “Don’t ever go out of town and leave us alone with these animals again.” Is it punishing us? I’m beginning to see a conspiracy here. Appliances that have managed to hang on for twenty years or more decide to commit suicide when we leave. Are they so emotionally attached to us? Have our appliances formed some kind of union and said, “If they can blow thousands of dollars on flights, hotels, and having a good time, then they’d better start paying attention to US! They’ve gone on vacation? Time to act out. Revenge! Malfunction!”

So, now we’re home, grateful to be back in our own bed and away from the four thousand students at the Holiday Inn where we were staying, who were in town for some sports event. However, it makes me a bit nervous about what will break next, which I will learn about in a text message while far away from home and repair people.

Moral of the story? Vacations are wonderful until you return and your kitchen greets you with, “Oh, good. You’re back. I broke something.” Is there a support group for people held hostage by emotionally manipulative appliances?

Maybe next time, we’ll just pitch a tent in the backyard and brave the wildlife and the bugs. At least I know where the water shutoff is.