Every year, when it comes time to renew our home warranty, my wife and I have the same conversation:
ME: Should we renew our home warranty?
HER: Have you suddenly learned how to fix things?
So we always renew. Some people scoff at the home warranty notion, saying you never get your money’s worth out of it. More than likely, if I were to add up the cost of annual home warranties that I have paid, it would be WAY more than the replacements and repairs I have had done. That said, the amount I have paid in home warranties, I can only guess, is WAY less than the damage I would have caused had I tried to fix it myself.
A few years ago, our hot water heater developed a leak. For the price of a service fee, some people came out, took away the old one, and replaced it with a brand spanking new one. Without the home warranty, there is a good chance that I might have discovered the problem when my wife was not around, and I might have tried to repair it myself, which would have probably resulted in, at minimum, the collapse of the house. So in some ways, a home warranty for me is not just insurance, but a guarantee that I will behave.
Of course, there are the times when the home warranty repair guy comes out and performs a repair that is so simple, I am pretty sure I could have turned it over to my 3-year-old to solve. In these instances, the repairman usually looks at the situation, then looks at me as if he is on some hidden camera show, because there is NO WAY someone would call for a repairmen to fix the problem at hand. (“It’s not a leak. That’s the faucet. Turn this handle and the water stops.”)
That was somewhat the case with our latest home warranty call. For several weeks, we had a terrible knocking in our wall, right by our bedroom. Something in the air conditioning unit would start this terrible clanging, like someone was trying to crawl up the ducts. While they swung hammers. It was less than pleasant.
I called the home warranty folks and told them I need to place a service call. She asked what the problem was, and I said, “My children can’t sleep through the night.” There was a pause on her end, possibly as she contemplated career choices. We then had this conversation:
ME: See, there’s this knocking sound, I think associated with the air conditioner, and it wakes everyone up at night.
HER: Is the unit cooling the house?
ME: Yes, but it knocks.
HER: But it IS cooling the house, right?
ME: Not the point.
HER: Sir, is the unit cooling the house?
ME: If I answer yes, will you still come here and fix it?
HER: sigh.
Eventually, she managed to convince me that she was just getting as much information as possible to relay to the company. The repairman came when I was at work, so my wife handled it. She told him about the noise, and they proceeded to wait for about two hours to hear the noise. The A/C knew they were there, and remained silent. They’re sneaky like that.
Eventually, he went up in the attic and poked around for a few minutes. Turns out, there are three lines that feed from the attic unit down through the duct work. One had gotten some slack in the line, and when the A/C kicked on, this line was flailing back and forth, clanging the inside of the duct-work. He told my wife that I could fix it “with just a flashlight.” Yeah, me in a dark attic armed with a flashlight, trying to fix my air conditioner. No potential hazard there.
We haven’t heard the noise in a while, which has been nice. At one point, I told my wife that I was a little bummed that we had spent good money to have someone come cinch up the slack on a hose. She quickly put my mind at ease: “Oh, honey - you wouldn’t have had a clue what you were looking for up there.” Hopefully the problem is solved for good. If the noise starts again, I know exactly what I’ll do: I’ll get my wife a flashlight. I sure won’t know what to do.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Old Man Montgomery
I guess I just have to accept that he’s getting to be an old man. Or, dog, as it were.
Montgomery has been my faithful pal since 1993, when I got him from an SPCA in college in Tuscaloosa, Ala. He was four weeks old, and had gotten the rather unloving start of being left at the shelter door taped in a cardboard box. He had rickets, where his little legs looked like they were bending when he ran. He had worms. Someone had tried to trim his ears in a ragingly inhumane way, so he’s got, to this day, this scalloped trim around them. He was, for lack of a better term, a wreck.
But my purebred Alabama Dumpster Hound had something about him that made him the perfect dog. He just had that look. When I went into the room with the dogs that day, all of the dogs did their usual thing where they run to the front of the cage and bark and yap. Montgomery, though, sat at the back of his cage, and just cut a glance over at me, as if to say, “I’m four weeks old and I’ve been through this. What more can you do?”
Montgomery first lived in the fraternity house, and was always available to loan out to friends in need of a prop on the Quad to strike up a conversation. When I moved to Orlando right after college, Montgomery was my roommate. He was always there when I got home from work, and every night had a delicious dinner waiting on me. Or he had eaten the couch cushions. One of those. I can’t really remember.
While once a ball of energy who could never sit still, Montgomery has slowed down of late. And he shares his grumpiness whenever he can. He barks. A lot. At nothing. He will stand in the yard and just bark. And bark. And bark. We try to keep an ear out for when he starts barking so we can bring him inside, which, of course, means he immediately settles and calms down.
HA! Of course that doesn’t happen. Montgomery merely comes inside and barks more, and louder. Sometimes, I am fairly sure he has my daughter’s toy microphone.
Rarely a night goes by where I don’t make two or three trips downstairs to assure Montgomery that there is nothing to bark at, which he responds by barking at me. I will reach my hand down and soothe him, and he will reassuringly bark at me.
Don’t get me wrong. He’s not barking like he’s going to bite or anything. He just points his head up and barks. And barks.
And then sometimes he barks at Maggie, our Basset hound. Maggie will be lying down, just being a Basset hound, and Montgomery will stand over her and bark. And bark. And bark. And Maggie will have this look on her face that says, “Seriously, I’m just trying to be a Basset Hound here. Knock it off.”
The other night, Montgomery was barking up a storm about 3 a.m. I was well into a good night sleep. And when I get into a good sleep, you can pretty much go ahead and perform open heart surgery on me, because I’m not waking up. My wife tried to wake me to get him to be quiet. After several nudges, pushes, and, I’m guessing, eye pokes, she said I sat up and said, “Just go tell him you’re a Bama fan.” I have no idea what that means or how that was supposed to make him stop barking, but it still strikes me as funny. (Eventually, she put Maggie in another room, and Montgomery went to sleep.)
Even as he turns into a grumpy old man, he still shows occasional signs of being the spry dog I have always known. He used to be an ace Frisbee-catcher, and has always loved fetching tennis balls. Even if he’s having one of those slow-to-get-up days, he still will go nuts if you throw a tennis ball. He will fetch it with the most fervor he can, and bring it back to you so incredibly happy that he has just simply brought you a ball. As my brother-in-law once said: “Montgomery just wants to be Mike’s dog.”
And that’s what he is. He’s my dog. He has always been there to make me happy. Bad day at work? Montgomery’s happy to see me. Car trouble? Montgomery’s happy to see me. Accidentally put a co-worker in intensive care with the unfortunate “exploding desk” prank? Montgomery’s happy to see me. And I have tried my level best to reciprocate that. Sure, he may be getting old and crotchety now, but you know what? I’ve probably been pretty grumpy about silly things over the years (Note from Mike’s wife: You think?), and Montgomery always greeted me the same way: just happy to see me.
In 1993, I had been dating someone for about three weeks when she accompanied me to the shelter to pick out a dog. We walked out of there with Montgomery. She and I have now been married for eight years. He’s her dog, too. And we both agree. He can be a grumpy old man. He’s earned it.
Montgomery has been my faithful pal since 1993, when I got him from an SPCA in college in Tuscaloosa, Ala. He was four weeks old, and had gotten the rather unloving start of being left at the shelter door taped in a cardboard box. He had rickets, where his little legs looked like they were bending when he ran. He had worms. Someone had tried to trim his ears in a ragingly inhumane way, so he’s got, to this day, this scalloped trim around them. He was, for lack of a better term, a wreck.
But my purebred Alabama Dumpster Hound had something about him that made him the perfect dog. He just had that look. When I went into the room with the dogs that day, all of the dogs did their usual thing where they run to the front of the cage and bark and yap. Montgomery, though, sat at the back of his cage, and just cut a glance over at me, as if to say, “I’m four weeks old and I’ve been through this. What more can you do?”
Montgomery first lived in the fraternity house, and was always available to loan out to friends in need of a prop on the Quad to strike up a conversation. When I moved to Orlando right after college, Montgomery was my roommate. He was always there when I got home from work, and every night had a delicious dinner waiting on me. Or he had eaten the couch cushions. One of those. I can’t really remember.
While once a ball of energy who could never sit still, Montgomery has slowed down of late. And he shares his grumpiness whenever he can. He barks. A lot. At nothing. He will stand in the yard and just bark. And bark. And bark. We try to keep an ear out for when he starts barking so we can bring him inside, which, of course, means he immediately settles and calms down.
HA! Of course that doesn’t happen. Montgomery merely comes inside and barks more, and louder. Sometimes, I am fairly sure he has my daughter’s toy microphone.
Rarely a night goes by where I don’t make two or three trips downstairs to assure Montgomery that there is nothing to bark at, which he responds by barking at me. I will reach my hand down and soothe him, and he will reassuringly bark at me.
Don’t get me wrong. He’s not barking like he’s going to bite or anything. He just points his head up and barks. And barks.
And then sometimes he barks at Maggie, our Basset hound. Maggie will be lying down, just being a Basset hound, and Montgomery will stand over her and bark. And bark. And bark. And Maggie will have this look on her face that says, “Seriously, I’m just trying to be a Basset Hound here. Knock it off.”
The other night, Montgomery was barking up a storm about 3 a.m. I was well into a good night sleep. And when I get into a good sleep, you can pretty much go ahead and perform open heart surgery on me, because I’m not waking up. My wife tried to wake me to get him to be quiet. After several nudges, pushes, and, I’m guessing, eye pokes, she said I sat up and said, “Just go tell him you’re a Bama fan.” I have no idea what that means or how that was supposed to make him stop barking, but it still strikes me as funny. (Eventually, she put Maggie in another room, and Montgomery went to sleep.)
Even as he turns into a grumpy old man, he still shows occasional signs of being the spry dog I have always known. He used to be an ace Frisbee-catcher, and has always loved fetching tennis balls. Even if he’s having one of those slow-to-get-up days, he still will go nuts if you throw a tennis ball. He will fetch it with the most fervor he can, and bring it back to you so incredibly happy that he has just simply brought you a ball. As my brother-in-law once said: “Montgomery just wants to be Mike’s dog.”
And that’s what he is. He’s my dog. He has always been there to make me happy. Bad day at work? Montgomery’s happy to see me. Car trouble? Montgomery’s happy to see me. Accidentally put a co-worker in intensive care with the unfortunate “exploding desk” prank? Montgomery’s happy to see me. And I have tried my level best to reciprocate that. Sure, he may be getting old and crotchety now, but you know what? I’ve probably been pretty grumpy about silly things over the years (Note from Mike’s wife: You think?), and Montgomery always greeted me the same way: just happy to see me.
In 1993, I had been dating someone for about three weeks when she accompanied me to the shelter to pick out a dog. We walked out of there with Montgomery. She and I have now been married for eight years. He’s her dog, too. And we both agree. He can be a grumpy old man. He’s earned it.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Zoo do you love
A couple of Saturdays ago, my wife and I were having breakfast when I asked her what she wanted to do today. She thought for a moment, and then said, “How about we go to the zoo?”
She knew this was a long shot, because I am about as spontaneous as a glacier. My idea of a rousing, impromptu good time is deciding to sit on a different couch to fall asleep on while watching the baseball game. Yes, I know — lucky her.
And she also knew it was a long shot because my Saturdays are usually my only time to do stuff around the house. I actually enjoy doing yard work and stuff, and feel a great sense of accomplishment when it’s done, so that’s kind of something I look forward to.
Both of those reasons tell you exactly why I was very surprised to hear myself say, “OK. Let’s do it.” Kinda sad that my wife actually gets a surprised look on her face when I agree to go to the zoo. Perhaps my spontaneity is in need of some revival.
Truth of the matter is, I love the zoo. Just love it. Even the nasty smells. Just something cool about seeing all of the animals. And the kids love it, too, so we always have a good time when we go.
The first animal we saw upon entering the zoo was a baboon. And, I am sure, you can guess the first thing my children wanted to know about it. “Diaper rash,” my wife said dismissively. I, of course, am not going to allow my children to be fed such nonsense, and explained to them that if you tell a lie, disobey your parents, or date before you are 25, that’s what happens to you. Education is key.
Next up were the tigers, which started as a big thrill, but ended in a bit of a disappointment for Parker who found it woefully discourteous of a tiger not to roar back. Of course, I am sure the tigers were sitting there saying, “Wow. A roar. How original. Hey, why don’t you come a little closer and let me hear it. Don’t worry about me. Just a lazy, ol’ tail-swatting tiger...”
One of the cooler things at the zoo is the lorikeet room, a big cage you can enter and have colorful birds land on you. You get these little paper cups of nectar, and the birds will come up and drink while perched on you. My wife decided that she would let me take the kids into the room, and she would stand as far as possible from the cage. In case you can’t tell, she doesn’t like birds. At least not on her.
So the kids were a little jumpy at first, as the birds flew around and hopped here and there. One landed on a nearby fence, and I saw this as a great time to let the little guy land on my hand and sip some nectar. He, however, saw this as a time to bite my finger, causing me to let out this muffled grunt of pain, trying my best not to let my kids know that I was trying to get them close up to a feathered finger vise. Allie proved to be the sensible one of the three of us and set her nectar cup down for the bird. Good move.
Next up was the penguin house, which is always cool to see. By the way, if you go to www.riverbanks.com, you can watch the penguin-cam. As I type this, a zoo worker in a yellow suit is pressure washing the rocks while the penguins waddle along around the worker. Undoubtedly, they are saying, “Where’s the fish? Where’s the fish? Seriously. Where’s the fish?”
Of course, one of the biggest hits of the zoo trip is the gorilla house. Invariably, one of the gorillas will be sitting near the big viewing window, and it is certainly fascinating to watch. Another thing I find very interesting in primate behavior is the need for some of the older ones to have complete and total disregard for the smaller ones. In particular, I am most fascinated by the big, lumbering primates on our side of the glass, who see no reason why they should stand behind a 5-year-old to view a gorilla. I am taller than the average person, and certainly taller than any of the children in the mix, so I make an effort to get out of the way of the little ones — or even the littler-than-me ones. Guess what — if you’re taller than someone and stand behind them, you can still see! Brilliant! But every time, there will be some big dolt pressed up against the glass, with the kids trying to peer around him to see something. I think that is why the gorilla often turns its back to us. It refuses to acknowledge our kind.
In all, the trip was a great success, as evidenced by the fact that Parker fell asleep before we were out of the parking lot. My wife was thrilled that I was willing to be spontaneous, even if it was something as plain-Jane as going to the zoo. Who knows — maybe this is a start of something new for me. Maybe I will be the most spontaneous person around from now on. Maybe next weekend — I nap upstairs during the game.
She knew this was a long shot, because I am about as spontaneous as a glacier. My idea of a rousing, impromptu good time is deciding to sit on a different couch to fall asleep on while watching the baseball game. Yes, I know — lucky her.
And she also knew it was a long shot because my Saturdays are usually my only time to do stuff around the house. I actually enjoy doing yard work and stuff, and feel a great sense of accomplishment when it’s done, so that’s kind of something I look forward to.
Both of those reasons tell you exactly why I was very surprised to hear myself say, “OK. Let’s do it.” Kinda sad that my wife actually gets a surprised look on her face when I agree to go to the zoo. Perhaps my spontaneity is in need of some revival.
Truth of the matter is, I love the zoo. Just love it. Even the nasty smells. Just something cool about seeing all of the animals. And the kids love it, too, so we always have a good time when we go.
The first animal we saw upon entering the zoo was a baboon. And, I am sure, you can guess the first thing my children wanted to know about it. “Diaper rash,” my wife said dismissively. I, of course, am not going to allow my children to be fed such nonsense, and explained to them that if you tell a lie, disobey your parents, or date before you are 25, that’s what happens to you. Education is key.
Next up were the tigers, which started as a big thrill, but ended in a bit of a disappointment for Parker who found it woefully discourteous of a tiger not to roar back. Of course, I am sure the tigers were sitting there saying, “Wow. A roar. How original. Hey, why don’t you come a little closer and let me hear it. Don’t worry about me. Just a lazy, ol’ tail-swatting tiger...”
One of the cooler things at the zoo is the lorikeet room, a big cage you can enter and have colorful birds land on you. You get these little paper cups of nectar, and the birds will come up and drink while perched on you. My wife decided that she would let me take the kids into the room, and she would stand as far as possible from the cage. In case you can’t tell, she doesn’t like birds. At least not on her.
So the kids were a little jumpy at first, as the birds flew around and hopped here and there. One landed on a nearby fence, and I saw this as a great time to let the little guy land on my hand and sip some nectar. He, however, saw this as a time to bite my finger, causing me to let out this muffled grunt of pain, trying my best not to let my kids know that I was trying to get them close up to a feathered finger vise. Allie proved to be the sensible one of the three of us and set her nectar cup down for the bird. Good move.
Next up was the penguin house, which is always cool to see. By the way, if you go to www.riverbanks.com, you can watch the penguin-cam. As I type this, a zoo worker in a yellow suit is pressure washing the rocks while the penguins waddle along around the worker. Undoubtedly, they are saying, “Where’s the fish? Where’s the fish? Seriously. Where’s the fish?”
Of course, one of the biggest hits of the zoo trip is the gorilla house. Invariably, one of the gorillas will be sitting near the big viewing window, and it is certainly fascinating to watch. Another thing I find very interesting in primate behavior is the need for some of the older ones to have complete and total disregard for the smaller ones. In particular, I am most fascinated by the big, lumbering primates on our side of the glass, who see no reason why they should stand behind a 5-year-old to view a gorilla. I am taller than the average person, and certainly taller than any of the children in the mix, so I make an effort to get out of the way of the little ones — or even the littler-than-me ones. Guess what — if you’re taller than someone and stand behind them, you can still see! Brilliant! But every time, there will be some big dolt pressed up against the glass, with the kids trying to peer around him to see something. I think that is why the gorilla often turns its back to us. It refuses to acknowledge our kind.
In all, the trip was a great success, as evidenced by the fact that Parker fell asleep before we were out of the parking lot. My wife was thrilled that I was willing to be spontaneous, even if it was something as plain-Jane as going to the zoo. Who knows — maybe this is a start of something new for me. Maybe I will be the most spontaneous person around from now on. Maybe next weekend — I nap upstairs during the game.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
I saw(ed) it
As we have well established, I am a problem solver.
Take for example, the time I got stuck on the roof. Or the time I nearly electrocuted myself trying to change a light bulb. Or the time I ended up upside down behind my dryer.
OK, I’m not a problem solver. When problems present themselves, I am generally the first person you can call if you want the problem to be accelerated into a full blown crisis. So imagine my surprise when my wife called me the other day to enlist my support in solving a problem.
Normally, when problems present themselves at home, my wife surveys the situation, comes up with a solution, and solves it, usually in the matter of about four minutes. She’s good like that. And she usually does all of this without telling me, because she’s afraid I will try and help, and that will only make things far, far worse.
But this time, she called me because it was a problem that had presented itself before, and I had actually solved it with minimal damage to our home.
When my wife called, I could tell it was one of those moments where she was not interested in solving any problems, and was quite possibly considering dropping the kids off at work with me and heading to the islands for four for five years. The phone call went like this:
ME: Hey, how’s it going?
HER: The pantry is – PARKER GET OFF OF THE TABLE – stuck shut and – ALLIE, DO NOT HELP YOUR BROTHER OFF THE TABLE -- I can’t get it open – PARKER, THAT IS DOG FOOD!!! – the easel is stuck again. – ALLIE, THAT IS DOG FOOD!!!
Ain’t summer grand!
Fortunately, I knew exactly what she was talking about. We have this plastic easel that the kids use to draw on when the walls are fully saturated with their art work. For some ill-conceived reason, we continue to store it in our pantry, and on occasion it will fall against the door and block us from entry.
In the past, I have been able to open the door enough to wiggle the easel out of the way and get the door open. This time, it had decided to get wedged in nice and firm where there would be no wiggling.
I know what you’re thinking: Why continue to store the easel there? Look, when you’re spending time convincing your daughter that getting her little brother to eat dog food is a bad idea, easel storage is WAY down on your list.
Being the super awesome husband I am, I assured my wife that it would be OK, and that I would solve it when I got home. My wife said something under her breath that I am fairly sure I am glad I didn’t hear.
When I got home, I went to work. As with any problem of this nature, the first thing to do is use brute strength and stern words. After nearly dislocating my shoulder, I concurred that my wife was correct in her assessment that it was, in fact, jammed in there pretty good.
The last time this happened, I was able to use a yard stick and slide it up under the door to dislodge the easel. My wife told me she had tried that, but I was fairly certain she had not REALLY tried it, otherwise the easel would be free, right?
About the moment the yardstick snapped in half, I heard the voice of my daughter, standing about six feet away, commenting on how I “broke Mommy’s ruler.” Thanks for the play-by-play, Vin Scully, How about you go watch the Disney Channel while Daddy solves problems?
The problem, as I could see it, was that a yardstick wasn’t quite sturdy enough to dislodge the easel this time. Being a guy’s guy, I went to my garage to retrieve the perfect tool. Let’s just say that, as far as tool guys go, I’m WAY down on the totem pole, since my first two choices were a license plate and a shish kebob. Neither worked quite well, as I am sure you are shocked. Neither of these conventional tools were long enough or sturdy enough to get some leverage on the easel and knock it free. Then I spied a handsaw. Perfect, I thought. My wife’s at the store, making this possibly ill-conceived plan even MORE perfect, I thought.
Sure enough, I was able to squeeze the saw through the crack in the door and lift the easel out of the way. And it only took out about half of the items in the pantry when it came crashing down. But it was open, even if the door frame was a little, um, sawed and such.
When my wife got home, she was pleased to see that it was free. Not so pleased about the door frame. But I managed to keep her focused on the important issues, and knew a simple way to get her mind off the scratched up door frame. I started to eat some dog food.
Take for example, the time I got stuck on the roof. Or the time I nearly electrocuted myself trying to change a light bulb. Or the time I ended up upside down behind my dryer.
OK, I’m not a problem solver. When problems present themselves, I am generally the first person you can call if you want the problem to be accelerated into a full blown crisis. So imagine my surprise when my wife called me the other day to enlist my support in solving a problem.
Normally, when problems present themselves at home, my wife surveys the situation, comes up with a solution, and solves it, usually in the matter of about four minutes. She’s good like that. And she usually does all of this without telling me, because she’s afraid I will try and help, and that will only make things far, far worse.
But this time, she called me because it was a problem that had presented itself before, and I had actually solved it with minimal damage to our home.
When my wife called, I could tell it was one of those moments where she was not interested in solving any problems, and was quite possibly considering dropping the kids off at work with me and heading to the islands for four for five years. The phone call went like this:
ME: Hey, how’s it going?
HER: The pantry is – PARKER GET OFF OF THE TABLE – stuck shut and – ALLIE, DO NOT HELP YOUR BROTHER OFF THE TABLE -- I can’t get it open – PARKER, THAT IS DOG FOOD!!! – the easel is stuck again. – ALLIE, THAT IS DOG FOOD!!!
Ain’t summer grand!
Fortunately, I knew exactly what she was talking about. We have this plastic easel that the kids use to draw on when the walls are fully saturated with their art work. For some ill-conceived reason, we continue to store it in our pantry, and on occasion it will fall against the door and block us from entry.
In the past, I have been able to open the door enough to wiggle the easel out of the way and get the door open. This time, it had decided to get wedged in nice and firm where there would be no wiggling.
I know what you’re thinking: Why continue to store the easel there? Look, when you’re spending time convincing your daughter that getting her little brother to eat dog food is a bad idea, easel storage is WAY down on your list.
Being the super awesome husband I am, I assured my wife that it would be OK, and that I would solve it when I got home. My wife said something under her breath that I am fairly sure I am glad I didn’t hear.
When I got home, I went to work. As with any problem of this nature, the first thing to do is use brute strength and stern words. After nearly dislocating my shoulder, I concurred that my wife was correct in her assessment that it was, in fact, jammed in there pretty good.
The last time this happened, I was able to use a yard stick and slide it up under the door to dislodge the easel. My wife told me she had tried that, but I was fairly certain she had not REALLY tried it, otherwise the easel would be free, right?
About the moment the yardstick snapped in half, I heard the voice of my daughter, standing about six feet away, commenting on how I “broke Mommy’s ruler.” Thanks for the play-by-play, Vin Scully, How about you go watch the Disney Channel while Daddy solves problems?
The problem, as I could see it, was that a yardstick wasn’t quite sturdy enough to dislodge the easel this time. Being a guy’s guy, I went to my garage to retrieve the perfect tool. Let’s just say that, as far as tool guys go, I’m WAY down on the totem pole, since my first two choices were a license plate and a shish kebob. Neither worked quite well, as I am sure you are shocked. Neither of these conventional tools were long enough or sturdy enough to get some leverage on the easel and knock it free. Then I spied a handsaw. Perfect, I thought. My wife’s at the store, making this possibly ill-conceived plan even MORE perfect, I thought.
Sure enough, I was able to squeeze the saw through the crack in the door and lift the easel out of the way. And it only took out about half of the items in the pantry when it came crashing down. But it was open, even if the door frame was a little, um, sawed and such.
When my wife got home, she was pleased to see that it was free. Not so pleased about the door frame. But I managed to keep her focused on the important issues, and knew a simple way to get her mind off the scratched up door frame. I started to eat some dog food.
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