(Not-So) Ms. Fix It

Few things are quite as scary as sticking your hand down the disposal, which, by the way, is something I have a particularly strong aversion to. I am here to tell you that sticking your hand down the disposal after shattering a glass in the sink is far scarier. When the disposal quit working today, and literally moments after the glass shattering incident, the first thing I wanted to do was run somewhere far, far away. The very LAST thing I wanted to do was figure out what was jamming it. My mind raced with visions of glass shards hiding just out of view waiting ever so patiently to mutilate the nails I had just painted, then on to my poor hands. It was horrible.

Of course, I didn't get the chance to do so because my grandmother decided she could fix the disposal. She was convinced we could spin the blades manually to clear it enough to make it come back to life. I would love to tell you what happened next, but after arguing my concerns for her safety and being met with nothing but a stubborn refusal to sit down, I had to leave the kitchen. No way was I going to watch her do this. My mother happened to walk through the kitchen, and apparently saved the day, though of course grandma says she fixed it.

I suppose I should be happy she wasn't climbing on a wheelchair. Don't laugh, it's happened. Why? She was trying to reach something.

Today I discovered one thing: I may be stubborn, but I am certainly not stubborn enough to stick my hand down a glass filled disposal. No, thank you.