Trolls Ignore Entropy; Or, Everything's Broken

If I make some truly insightful comments on entropy, trolls, and the rise of order from chaos, will my washing machine work properly again?

It's odd how when I count up all the broken things in my life and balance them against the things which aren't broken, a whirling vortex of doom opens up before me as I realize that the busted-up junk greatly outnumbers the useful, value-retaining material goods. I am sliding into junkyard oblivion with all the crap that I don't know how to repair. I understand now why the hillbilly stereotype includes a front yard filled with rusted-out cars, trucks, old refrigerators, dead washing machines, and so forth; it's a pain to drive it the two hours to the dump, and besides, your husband thinks he might be able to use it someday.

But the nice part about living in paradise, which is where I believe I live when I am able to ignore the landslides, ticks, poison oak, rattlesnakes, grouchy husbands, and psychotic, snarling dogs, is that I can ignore the junkyard-like catastrophe I call a driveway, look through the mist and the trees to the hills around me, and enjoy the peace of living in clean air, far away from all the annoying people other than my DH.

And when my washing machine finishes its life cycle, as it is apparently about to, I can replace it with a less complex sytem, like the James washer. Because simple systems are less subject to entropy, right? Though when I think about it, I moved out here thinking that life in the woods would be simple, I could live like a hermit, think long, slow thoughts, and just plain be. Never mind the complexities of solar energy systems, plumbing and large appliance repair (yes, a two-hour drive to the nearest town does make fixing large items such as . . . washing machines . . . more logistically, emotionally, and physically challenging), and the heart-rending choices (should I just shoot those fucking raccoons, or what?) one must make when living mostly in the wilderness.

I think I intended this post to be philosophical, but when I look it over, mostly what I see is a complaint about my washing machine. Which is ok, because that machine really does suck, and besides, it's a pain gassing up the small generator to run the damn thing. Can't wait for the new washer to arrive, and then I can start my campaign to get my man to help me schlep the old one back to my mother (three and a half hours away; involves toting washer down stairs, hefting it into the back of the Suburban where it may not fit since we recently installed a dog kennel for the insane dog Jack, driving it down a 15-mile rutted dirt road, then carrying it down a cat-poop-infested dirt path to Mom's damp and rotting cellar). Then again, we could tell her she needs to pick it up herself in her Honda Civic.