I suppose I’m a little old to start a family

It all started when my garbage disposal stopped working. Clearly there was something in there that the damn thing did not like. But before I could discover what it was and lose my fingers by putting my hand down there to fish around for whatever it was, it stopped working and began to hum instead of grinding shit up. Sort of like when you hum to avoid tasks that may seem unpleasant.

Well it wasn’t the only thing that was humming. Even looking under the sink is something I’d prefer to avoid. I hummed for a couple three hours deciding that in meantime I’d be very diligent about composting. I do compost and, of course, there’s the worm farm, but I seem to turn out innumerable tidbits of veg that are really too small to deal with sometimes. (HATE that word, veg, if you can call it a word. I only used it because I like to imagine the local mounted police snorting in annoyance when he read it) The worms won’t eat onion and onion related items, or citrus, 2 things that I seem to use on a regular basis and both of which produce myriad disposable bits that are just easier to toss into the sink than run out to the compost bin. I needed to fix the damn thing.

Eventually I was flipping through the yellow pages looking under P for Plumber, haha, is there Yellow Pages anymore? I was googling around and found a local plumber who, on his or her website under Garbage Disposal, said something like, “Really, you can fix this yourself, you idiot.” God, I can’t tell you how much I enjoy being shamed by a website.

I rushed over to the YouTube. And guess what . . . you go and get your “self-service wrenchette,” and you stick that in a hole in the bottom of the device and wiggle it around a few times. That’s it. I mean, seriously??? First of all who the hell has a “self-service wrenchette???” It turns out, I do. Not only do I have one, it was sitting there in plain view when I opened the nightmare I call my tool drawer. I have never in my 49 years of life, OK, 69, used a wrenchette. I don’t even like the word. Wrenchette. Fer chrissake. Couldn’t it be called something a little less silly? Wigglizer, for instance.

Anyway, against my better judgment I peered into the wretched underbelly of my sink, moved an enormous amount of crap I’d not seen in decades out of the way, and executed the procedure. OMG. It worked. I felt so heterosexual. Me and my trusty wrenchette. I’m thinking of takin’ on a few more household chores, possibly using an actual wrench, acquire my Straight Guy Certification and get myself a little filly off Match.com. Probably gonna start fishing and stop cutting my toenails.

Seriously, they have to put the name on it? Do-it-yourself hammer, Selfless shovel

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