Weekly Column: These things come in 3’s

©Stephenie Freeman

So the Golfer and I were sitting at the table last night after dinner. The boys had already gone upstairs to supposedly get ready for bed (cue the laughter) and we were just hanging out, finishing our wine and talking about our week.

I start talking about all of the advanced options that I’d been reading about on my camera. He says it’s good that I’m making the most of it because my camera is a perfectly fine camera.

And I say yeah I really, really want a new one because mine is just a point-and-shoot, but instead I’ve been thinking that maybe I should learn Adobe Photoshop instead.

And then he says well that’s expensive and hard to learn and I say yeah but I’m a crafty girl and anyone who can teach herself HTML and build her own website with a baby in her lap can learn anything.

And he says of course you can, but why do you want to? And I say because I want to take better pictures.

And he says why? And I say why wouldn’t I?

And he says but all you do is stick them in an album. And I refrain from saying what I’m thinking and instead say I don’t care where I stick them I want them to be the best pictures possible.

Suddenly we’re in the midst of a heated discussion (i.e., having an argument) about my want of better pictures and my need to be crafty and how even though I already write a weekly column, a blog, plus do a little knitting and needlepoint on the side while I’m trying to parent, I still wanted a new hobby that perhaps included a new camera.

And the Golfer is just sitting there looking at me with his “this is why I hid the credit cards from you” face. I decide that the conversation isn’t going in my favor and tell him that I’m done discussing this and to just forget it and stomp over to the sink with the dirty dishes to pout. I’m scraping plates into the sink while the Golfer tries to make amends asking me questions about my camera, etc. when I go to flip on the garbage disposal in protest to drown out his voice.

Nothing happens. No noise. No grinding. No chewing up the scraps and sending them off to the ocean (because I assume that’s what happens.) And I keep flipping the switch thinking that something is suddenly going to kick into gear while hoping for the best. But all I got was a bunch of nothing.

And then I cussed because I’ve gotten really good at that lately.

After ten minutes of trying the reset button and unplugging it, the burning smell made it clear that the disposal was busted. This in and of itself would be frustrating enough, but just last week we came home and flipped on the air conditioner only to find it blowing hot air and within twenty-four hours quickly found out what home emergencies funds are for.

Happy we were not. If I had a really good camera, you’d be able to clearly see through all of the mega pixels just how not happy we were.

The crazy thing is that this is the third disposal that I’ve gone through in my lifetime and I haven’t had direct contact with disposals for that long. Standing over the sink the Golfer was just staring at me like what the hell are you doing to these things woman? I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong, but a person who can teach herself HTML and build her own website with a baby on her lap should be able to effectively use a disposal without burning up the motor.

Apparently not.

The only blessing in the situation–actually there were two–was that Home Depot was still open and fortunately I am married to a man who knows how to replace these things. Now I’m just waiting for the next shoe to drop, the third thing to break, because you know these things always happen in threes.

Maybe this time I’ll get lucky and it will be my camera.

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