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Hartselle Enquirer

By the way, the stove is white

By Staff
Leada Gore, Editor
When Greg and I got married, we had a simple division of duties. I handle the cooking, cleaning and washing clothes. He handles car maintenance, lawn maintenance, bug killing and home repairs.
And, for the last two years, we’ve pretty much stuck to these roles. So much so in fact that Greg recently asked me what color our stove was, a fact that demonstrates he has not cooked the first thing since we got married.
But, last weekend, I found myself in the position of having to handle home repairs for myself.
Greg and his son, Derek, were out of town for the weekend. I was at home with our dog, Spike, with the mission of hosting a family gathering on Sunday. Spike and I had already survived a Friday night scare when the alarm system went off, alerting me that someone was trying to get into the house. It turned out to be nothing, but me and my nine-pound attack dog still patrolled the hall to make sure. I was armed with a hairbrush, something I later realized wouldn’t do me much good unless the intruder needed a perm.
On Sunday I awoke to discover the plugs in the bathroom, as well as the light in the shower, weren’t working. I knew there was some sort of box in the garage that had to do with electricity, so I headed there first. I opened the door and found it was conveniently labeled, including one switch with “bathroom plugs” beside it.
I switched it to the right and then back to the left, confident I had solved the problem.
When I made it back to the bathroom, I realized the problem wasn’t solved. I then tried my second course of action.
I called Greg.
The funny thing is, I knew he was out of cell phone range, but I still wanted to leave him a message.
I made do with other plugs, getting ready for company later in the day. Luckily, the company was in the form of my dad. Dad told me to check the little button in the middle of one of the plugs.
I pressed the button and suddenly everything suddenly sprung to life. The home repair was complete.
About four hours later, Greg called to report he was back in cell service range and was headed home.
Greg doesn’t need to know that pressing a button doesn’t really constitute home repair. The way I see it, he owes me a home-cooked meal.

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