It was a beautiful Sunday morning. The sun was out, birds were chirping in the backyard, and I didn’t have anything that I had to do. It was nice to just wake up to a day where there were no travel plans, no children’s sporting events to attend, or any honey-to-do lists to procrastinate.
With my new-found freedom, I strolled into the kitchen to search the refrigerator for some breakfast, saw my wife at the sink, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She said good morning and then flipped on our garbage disposal. Seven seconds into my perfect, gorgeous, relaxing, easy Sunday morning, our garbage disposal decided to commit suicide. It sounded like somebody (probably my wife) left a spoon in the disposal along with $10 in loose change. Normally, the garbage disposal is supposed to chew up food items, but this particular morning the garbage disposal was chewing up its own internal components. The disposal self-destructed, cracking the entire case and began dripping water under the sink. Not good.
My wife, whom I love, said, “I don’t think it’s supposed to sound like that.”
“Really?” I asked very sarcastically. “You don’t think it’s supposed to sound like rocks in a blender?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think this garbage disposal has reached its maximum spoon consumption limit. It can no longer destroy and grind away any of our silverware.”
My wife seemed unfazed by the news, walked into the living room, and sat on the couch. She was planning on binge watching old seasons of Dexter on Netflix all day, and the garbage disposal replacement conversation was getting in the way of that part of her weekend. Obviously, the disposal emergency was not an emergency for her. As I was walking out the door to go to Home Depot, she said over her shoulder, “I’ll help … if you need it.”
I wandered around the aisles looking for a new, “better” disposal. I asked the kid at the store if they sold a garbage disposal that had the capability of grinding down diamonds or truck axles, because that was the one I wanted for my house. The kid said they didn’t stock anything that can do what I was looking for. “Fine, then give me the cheapest one you have.”
I came home $100 lighter in the wallet, carrying a heavy box. My wife didn’t get up from the couch to help me in the door, but she did say again, “I’ll help … if you need it.” She continued, uninterrupted, to watch Dexter.
I worked all morning long in the darkness and grossness under the sink. I got yucky food water dripped on me as I removed the old disposal. I’ll admit there was a fair amount of cursing going on under the sink. My wife continued to enjoy her Sunday, and every time she would hear me hit my head or start a tirade of cursing, she would nonchalantly say from the couch, “I’ll help … if you need it.”
I got up and down over and over again for spare parts, went in and out of the house to the garage for bigger wrenches, and my wife just continued to enjoy her television show about a serial killer with a moral code—a show I never really understood the appeal of. Every once in a while when I came in with more tools she would say, “I’ll help. … If you need it.” Obviously I needed help. I had myself curled into the fetal position under the sink trying to get the old disposal out and I needed tools, but she didn’t offer to get me tools, she only offered to “help.” Help meant watching television.
I got to a point where I needed real, actual, physical help. My arms weren’t long enough to hold the drain portion in the sink and be underneath the sink to tighten the garbage disposal mount. I finally took my wife up on her offer to, “Help … if you need it.” After my request, she took a deep breath, looked annoyed, and then paused her show. “How long do you think it will take?”
“A few seconds.”
“You always say a few seconds, and then you take forever on these projects.”
“Really? Forever? Because forever is me under the sink getting gunk in my eyes and banging my head against pipes while I try to replace the garbage disposal in your kitchen when you’re too busy to even hand me a wrench.”
“I told you I would help … if you needed it.”
“I NEED IT!”
“OK, you don’t have to be mean about it. I was trying to help by just staying out of your way.”
“Just hold this here in the sink, and don’t let it move. I’m going to push up from under the sink, and I don’t want to break the new seal I just put in with plumber’s putty.”
My wife said “OK,” and I headed under the sink.
While I was working diligently in the confines under the sink, I continued to explain to her how important her job was, “If that drain moves and we break the seal we’ll end up with a leak under the sink that can cause mold and other issues. It is crucial that you keep it pushed down tight because I’m really putting pressure up from the bottom here and … I’ve almost got it … what, wait a second.”
I looked out from under the sink, and I saw my wife standing in the kitchen nowhere near where I wanted her to hold the drain. She was rubbing her hands.
“Honey! I told you not to let go of the drain!”
“It was hurting my fingers.”
“You think my fingers under here aren’t hurting? It’s a dirty, hard job. It isn’t supposed to be fun.”
“Dirty jobs aren’t really my thing. That’s your thing.”
“So what’s your thing then? Sitting around watching Dexter? That must be nice.”
“Not for you, you don’t like Dexter. Dexter is my thing; plumbing is your thing. You see? It all works out.”
Angry and tired of my Sunday project, I started to think: “What would Dexter do in this situation?” Lucky for my wife, they didn’t have that super dispose-of-anything garbage disposal I really wanted to buy. Well, I guess she gets to live another day.
Obviously Rob is just being satirically funny; he would never harm his wife, whom he loves. If you enjoy Rob’s stories check out his first novel, Cadet Blues, available on Amazon.com.
