Lena’s bedroom door has been obnoxiously squeaky for quite a while. Tonight Lena and I christened our very first can of DW-40 and sprayed down the hinges. Her door is now back in silent working order, and we only managed to use 1/1000th of the can. Since we had so much spray left (and loved the instant gratification) we proceeded to tame the minor squeals of my bedroom and bathroom doors.
We are out of entrances to tame and have only used 2/1000ths (also known as 1/500th because I know how to divide fractions) of our DW-40 supply. Who in Savannah needs some help with home maintenance projects? We will leave no squeak unchecked, and only the minor odor of aerosol spray lubricant behind.
Tonight it was me versus the garbage disposal and that grumbly hunk of machinery was no match for my might.
The garbage disposal died yesterday and my first thought was something like, “Ruh roh…don’t want to tell the sister about this one.”
My second thought was to call one of the Davids. David Option A is my beau who I’ve seen work on a leaky sink and who tore apart a clogged disposal within the past few months. David Option B actually lives in Savannah and is our unofficial home maintenance adviser in addition to being our official realtor.
Instead of these initial choices, I decided to call Mr. Old Faithful himself. The one, the only: Robert Swanson.
I introduced my dilemma in serious manner, much the same way an Italian mob boss would act cool and collected all the while knowing that he was about to get down to some real dirty business.
“I’m calling because I need to know…what you know…about garbage disposals.”
With that, my dad started rattling off descriptions about what I should examine on the disposal itself and possible reasons for the malfunction. “Ya gotta get down there and look,” he said.
Why yes, let me crawl under the sink in my fancy work dress. That’ll be dandy.
But sure enough, after I completed his instructions below the sink and then shoved my hand down the food-encrusted drain on the top side, my disposal was back in working order.
My dad was a plumber’s assistant about 30 years ago, but as far as I’m concerned it could have been yesterday. In addition to feeling victorious, it will be nice to fall asleep with a sense of accomplishment from the evening. That is, after I scrub my hands for the fourth time.
I am extremely behind on my blogging. Tumblr was down for maintenance over the weekend and I was just plain busy and/or lazy before that. I will be brief with my updates, and my photographic evidence will help illustrate my major point.
1. Bad things happen when Cora and I are left home alone.
Exhibit A: We engaged in impromptu plumbing a few weeks ago when the sink broke.
Exhibit B: This Saturday the ductwork for the dryer vent decided to detach itself and we had to move the washer and dryer, re-position the piping using garden gloves, kitchen scissors, a screwdriver (non-alcoholic, unfortunately), duct tape, and vacuum gobs of untrapped lint.
2. Green cards are actually green. Drum roll please…Harold is a resident! He got his card in the mail and we were excited to see one very special word on the top: Permanent.
3. I received a Cities Sampler in the mail. Hooray for Minnesota music and friends’ moms who battle crowds and brisk morning temps just to buy this extremely limited luxury.
