posted Mon, 18 Sep 2006
You guys know I can fix things around my house by myself. (Except electrical stuff.) You know that I am an independent, home-owning, painted the exterior trim, dug up the front yard for flowerbeds, put anti-mold primer in the bathroom, laid pink insulation in the attic woman who don’t need no stinkin’ badge. Right?
So when SH pointed out that the attic fan was rather squeaky, I armed myself with my can of trusty WD40 and a flashlight and headed up the stairs. I’ve repaired that fan many times now. I can handle this one by myself, thank you very much.
It did not make me happy when SH followed me up the attic stairs. I don’t need his supervision. I don’t need his suggestions. A little WD40 will set me right. That’s all I need. Give me duct tape and WD40 and I can solve 95% of the problems in the world. Add a Swiss Army knife and I can get almost to 100%.
But there he was, creeping behind me. As I sprayed lubricant on all the moving parts, he insisted on making what he thought were helpful suggestions. Then he demanded that I give him the flashlight. “Let me see something,” he said.
Then, “Look,” as he pointed to some little doohickey thingamabob fliptop thingy.
“What?” I asked sullenly.
“That’s where the oil goes.”
“The oil to lubricate the motor,” he explained patiently.
“Well, I haven’t put oil in this fan since I moved into the house and it’s been just fine.”
He said nothing as he waited for me to absorb the idiocy of what I had just said.
I absorbed it.
Chastened, I asked, “Do you think sewing machine oil would work?”
“OK. I’ll go get it.”
The working life: Concealed carry
1 day ago