My garbage disposal broke Friday night.
When I flipped the switch, the sound it made told me something was stuck in there. When I flipped it off and back on, it made no sound at all.
Resetting didn't work. I whipped out the special Allen wrench, but the impeller wouldn't turn. On Saturday, when I pulled the unit off and disassembled it as much as possible, I discovered a little screw had fallen in and gotten stuck between the impeller and the wall. It took forever, but I finally managed to pry out the little screw. Then I reassembled the unit and reinstalled it. Shortly after that, I was back in business, grinding up little bits of leftover food.
Year ago, my garbage disposal died, and I replaced it. Katie--then about 8--and her friends watched me struggle for hours, trying to get the new one in place. When I finally got it working without leaks, the girls and I danced around the kitchen, singing "I Am Woman" and dancing. We tossed old bread and a couple floppy carrots into its maw and cheered with abandon when it ground them up and washed them away. We had ice cream to celebrate.
Saturday, there was no dancing. No singing. No ice cream.
Sometimes I wonder if being so able to take care of myself and my home is a blessing or a curse.
Before the shower for Evan and Kristin, I power washed and resealed both decks and did a little maintenance on them. My neighbor came outside at one point, and watched me go up and down a 10-foot ladder about 100 times. When I came down from driving some screws to secure a loose spindle, she looked at me and smiled.
"Honey," she said, "you need a boyfriend."
Maybe if I couldn't tighten my own spindles and repair my own garbage disposal, I'd have one. Maybe I'd be more assertive or less picky. Maybe the Universe would be more cooperative. Maybe.