For two days I walked into the kitchen and gave the sink the side eye. We have a garbage disposal that refused to dispose of the gallon of chipotle mac and cheese I shoved down its gullet and thus we had a situation.
I flipped the switch to my garbage disposal and listened to the sound of silence and terror.
I don’t want to shove my hand in the sink hole in some terrifying reenactment of Careless Woman Who Lost Her Ring in a horror movie! Malevolent spirits are not to be trifled with.
Over the course of these two days I told Husband about 17 times that the disposal requires attention (either from a plumber or an exorcist) until he was all, “Yeah. I get it.”
I don’t think he did but if it’s annoying (even by proxy) it’s on his radar.
Now, call me the anti-feminist all you like but it didn’t even cross my mind to fux with that machine. Oh Hell no. That’s just not what I do. There’s a part that eats food, which is sharp and dangerous, and a magical stomach part that makes food go away… I wouldn’t get all doctor with my own stomach so this ever-hungry mechanical beast can keep it’s insides just so.
My hurry stemmed from needing to call a plumber before the food in the disposal started to stink. Yeah, I had ZERO intention to even try.
Then after we both eat an actual meal at Outback Steak House (I usually get cheese fries and chicken wings because I’m six) he says, “I emptied the dishwasher, you can fill it, then I’ll check on the disposal.”
Insert exaggerated cartoon eye blinking. We know it’s broken… “Umm, okay.”
A number of things went through my mind:
- He’s a software engineer, he need his hands!
- Am I insane, and maybe there’s nothing wrong with the disposal (quick confirmation check, it’s not working)?
So, I finally loaded the dishes into the dishwasher (because Dylan Dog was at a lull) and tried the garbage disposal again. Nothing.
I lined up rubber gloves, two flashlights, a bucket and a series of screwdrivers (which I then put away because I didn’t want Husband shoving a screw driver into the hungry mouth of an angry, metal beast).
Husband comes down and like twelve seconds later says, “Fixed it.”
“What the fuck? I mean, really? How? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I just pushed the button.”
The light of the flashlight glints off what might be a button if you think there are buttons in a garbage disposal. “Yeah, I [something, something, something] reset to [something, something, something].”
The switch is flipped and the beast growls to life.
“It’s still making a weird noise,” he says with a frown.
We tilt our heads and listen.
“I dunno sounds like the grumble of a garbage disposal to me. We’ll throw a lemon in it later. You rock.” High fives all around and an empty sink waiting for more scraps.
This is the when he’s super sexy, perfect, awesome to me. My Husband is my Hero.