Everest-erator
It was my Everest. Oh ho ho, was it ever my Everest.
With a sickly hum and a staunch refusal to churn even the measliest of scraps we offered it, the broken In-Sinkerator (street name: Garbage Disposal) was more than a slight inconvenience, it was a persistent, mocking reminder of who - or in this case, what - was in control. I may be its owner, but the House and its many mechanical minions merely cough and I am paralyzed, tossed into a limbo of decision - just live with it? maintenance men? product warranty? call Dad? .... or fix it myself? Every time Finicky House so much as blinked, I'd call the homeowner association service people. After all, I was under warranty. HAHA!
That ended last October and I've been hoping that we'd go problem free...well, forever. That's when In-Sinkerator struck. Or rather, got stuck.
On the verge of the Dad call (think Batman spotlight, only using my shoddy Samsung instead), I figured I'd see if a service guy could come out.
When the In-Sinkerator service guy suggested I just replace it myself, I found myself at a defining moment. If even the guy who stands to make money tells me to do it myself rather than pay him, something must really be wrong. It must be like offering to pay a doctor to help me put on my glasses or something.
It was time for me to be ... a Man of the House.
For the first time ever, I went to Home Depot to buy something other than gift for my Dad or pick out something to be installed by someone else. I masked my look of desperation as best I could and toted my new In-Sinkerator, plumber's putty (plumber = me!), and adjustable pliers (aside from some mini computer screwdrivers, I have no real tools) home.
Now I know where the term "screw this!" comes from. After an afternoon of screwing, unscrewing, wresting and lugging, I excised the broken beast from under my sink only to discover that there was a whole other list of missing tools. With my ever-so-patient roommates Kroosts and Cat offering moral support, I steeled myself for the second round. Off to Ace I went and brought back a wire stripper (not nearly as sexy as it sounds), wire caps, and electrical tape. With my new artillery, I jumped back into the fray and managed to put the new beast in by evening.
I flicked the switch.
Whirrrrrrrr.
Ah, the sound of success had never sounded sweeter. If I ever cook with real food (non-Ramen based cuisine), I can't wait to toss some crazy chunks of food down that puppy.
I wonder if Bob Vila needs an understudy?
With a sickly hum and a staunch refusal to churn even the measliest of scraps we offered it, the broken In-Sinkerator (street name: Garbage Disposal) was more than a slight inconvenience, it was a persistent, mocking reminder of who - or in this case, what - was in control. I may be its owner, but the House and its many mechanical minions merely cough and I am paralyzed, tossed into a limbo of decision - just live with it? maintenance men? product warranty? call Dad? ....
That ended last October and I've been hoping that we'd go problem free...well, forever. That's when In-Sinkerator struck. Or rather, got stuck.
On the verge of the Dad call (think Batman spotlight, only using my shoddy Samsung instead), I figured I'd see if a service guy could come out.
When the In-Sinkerator service guy suggested I just replace it myself, I found myself at a defining moment. If even the guy who stands to make money tells me to do it myself rather than pay him, something must really be wrong. It must be like offering to pay a doctor to help me put on my glasses or something.
It was time for me to be ... a Man of the House.
For the first time ever, I went to Home Depot to buy something other than gift for my Dad or pick out something to be installed by someone else. I masked my look of desperation as best I could and toted my new In-Sinkerator, plumber's putty (plumber = me!), and adjustable pliers (aside from some mini computer screwdrivers, I have no real tools) home.
Now I know where the term "screw this!" comes from. After an afternoon of screwing, unscrewing, wresting and lugging, I excised the broken beast from under my sink only to discover that there was a whole other list of missing tools. With my ever-so-patient roommates Kroosts and Cat offering moral support, I steeled myself for the second round. Off to Ace I went and brought back a wire stripper (not nearly as sexy as it sounds), wire caps, and electrical tape. With my new artillery, I jumped back into the fray and managed to put the new beast in by evening.
I flicked the switch.
Whirrrrrrrr.
Ah, the sound of success had never sounded sweeter. If I ever cook with real food (non-Ramen based cuisine), I can't wait to toss some crazy chunks of food down that puppy.
I wonder if Bob Vila needs an understudy?
posted by dodger | 8:22 PM
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