published September 14, 2006
My husband, Dale, has no such desire to keep the house in pristine working order. He wants to take the broken thing apart and see if he can fix it. This usually involves several trips to Home Depot for various repair kits, tools and duct tape. After he’s had his fun, I can call a repairman.
We have conducted our entire married life this way, but I think I am slowly moving toward his side of the aisle, due to a couple of recent incidents.
A few months ago, Dale had to go out of town on business. The first day he was gone, the kitchen sink clogged. Mostly, this was my fault, because I fed the garbage disposal too much rice. My first impulse was to buy a new house, followed quickly by the idea of calling a plumber. And then I decided to try to fix it myself.
After digging through the trail of tools that are scattered around our garage, I went to the store to get the proper wrench for unscrewing the pipe. This was a first for me, as I generally use fingernail files and shoe heels for most jobs around the house.
Carefully opening the pipe with the wrench, I dug all of the rice out of it, then somehow managed to put the pipe back without causing it to leak when I turned the faucet on. And the garbage disposal still worked! I was tempted to call the local news so they could send over a reporter and a photographer. My girlfriends were definitely impressed.
The second event happened just last week when I was cleaning the house. My house was overdue for some serious cleaning, so I spent two full days dusting and wiping and mopping and straightening. When it was time to vacuum, I got out the Hoover, plugged it in and turned it on. And then something bad happened.
My vacuum cleaner wouldn’t suck; all it did was push the animal hair around on the carpet. Turning it off, unplugging it and turning it upside down, I began my investigation. It couldn’t need a new bag, as I had replaced it before I started. I needed to unscrew the bottom to see if there was a broken belt or something.
Since the screws were the Philips-head type, I couldn’t use my nail file and had to go find the right kind and size of screwdriver in the garage. My first attempt was unsuccessful, and the screwdriver was too small for the screws.
Feeling sticky with perspiration, unhappy that I was repairing the vacuum instead of using it, and unwilling to look for a bigger screwdriver, I reverted to my natural self and decided to go buy a new vacuum instead. I reasoned that this vacuum was inexpensive and inadequate and I really needed that lovely yellow Dyson on the shelf at Target.
I showered, dressed and was getting into the minivan when I saw the larger screwdriver on the shelf. Okay, I thought, I’ll give the repair thing one more try.
This time the screws came out and the bottom lifted off without complaint. I saw at once that there was a large, vacuumed hairball obstructing everything. Cleaning it out, I put it all back together and plugged it back in. Suction was restored, and I was able to complete my cleaning.
When Dale came home that evening, he asked me how my day went.
“You don’t know how lucky you are,” I told him.