There we were, still in the dark. Hurricane Irene had mainly blown through and the husband decided we should head out for coffee and Home Depot. Mind you, we’d suffered no physical damage to the house, but he figured this was as good a time as any to repair that pesky sink sprayer. Innocently, I went along.
It was eerie out there. Limbs strewn everywhere. Traffic lights out. But we arrived at our destination and he determinedly went hunting for and found the seven dollar part. I should have worried when I noticed the determined gleam in his eye.
Back home, he set about to repair the sprayer. Naturally, there was no need to read the instructions. That resulted in about an hour of tinkering, and finally having to remove what he’d installed to read the instructions and do it over. I finally averted my eyes and left the room, unable to continue watching.
But I could still hear…noises. Clanking noises. And an expletive. Rushing back in, there he sat, holding a piece of pipe in his hand. Repairing the sprayer he’d broken the pipe under the sink leading to the dishwasher. He’d been at it for four hours.
The very next day, off he went to buy the piece of pipe. He returned triumphantly, the returning hunter…new part in hand. This time, I noticed the gleam. And I left the house in search of electricity, air conditioning and wifi to try to distract myself. I returned to the house several hours later. He proudly declared he’d made the repair. That’s when I noticed the cabinet door wouldn’t close. Yes…he’d broken the hinge, repairing the pipe. I now completely understood the ad I’d seen for a plumber: “We repair what your husband fixes.”
He hasn’t yet repaired the hinge, but I’m afraid…very afraid.
Bubbling On The Stove 