The Electrician is a man’s man. He sports a full beard and has for years, and wears a hard hat and steel-toed safety boots at work. His favorite bands are Led Zepplin and Lynryd Skynrd, and he immediately tosses the straws out of his beverages at restaurants because he says straws, particularly the bendy ones, make him feel like a preschooler. I privately think he might just like to dip his mustache in his milk, but that’s beside the point. Anyhoo, The Electrician is rugged and masculine and can fix just about anything. If I elaborated on his mushy heart and his very sweet nature, I’d embarrass him all over the internet, so let’s just leave it at this: The Electrician = classically manly.
Yesterday morning, I punched the button the start the garage door opener, and my brand new door glided up and out of the way. It was all very “open sesame,” particularly compared to the function of my old door, which was one of those heavy old steel models that could probably have been melted down to cast a Volkswagen bug and suits of armour for an entire jousting brigade. The old door was so clunky and horrid that it swayed in the tracks and seemed ready to fall on my SUV at any moment; there are no words for the screeching and scraping noises it made, either. My new door was well worth the considerable investment, and it looks purty too.
When I backed Fern out into the alley, the antenna caught on the last edge of the garage door as it always has. My garage was built at a time when SUVs didn’t exist unless you wanted to work for the army and ride around in a Jeep, so the clearance between Fern’s roof and the garage door is tight. I’m used to the stubby little antenna on my roof catching a little bit as I ease out onto the driveway. The old door, forged from ores dug up about the time Napoleon was exiled, took the snag and twanging release of the antenna every morning in a stride. I doubt it even noticed, really: it would be like expecting a rhinceros to notice the lady bug skittering across its toenail.
This new door, while beautiful, is apparently a bit of a cream puff compared to its predecessor. When the antenna caught again yesterday morning, I was already listening to the radio and singing as only a woman desperate to be fully awake for jumping in the pool can be, but the twang actually startled me. I got out to have a look, and noticed the carnage of the antenna/door showdown. Clearly, the antenna was the favorite in this match.
I tossed out some words I refuse to repeat here on my family friendly blog, but one rhymed with “boil,” and went inside to stew about the issue. My solution, with a little input from my dad, involved fashioning some sort of antenna deflector on the damaged door panel to prevent the twang and save my beautiful new door. The Electrician and I went out to do a little shopping, and I remembered to ask him about it as I pulled back into the garage. Our conversation went like this:
“I need to show you my garage door. The antenna’s beating it to pieces.”
“Really? I wonder why.”
“Because it’s not a relic of the middle ages like the last one.”
He looked at the door, I suspect anticipating a couple of mild scratches or something, and he saw this:
“Wow.” The he whistled like only a man with a beard can whistle. Those things go together, like little old ladies and flowered swim caps. “You’ve only parked in here a few times since the door was installed,” he commented, “this poor door is gonna look like hell by February at this rate.” He was correct, of course.
I asked him what he though I should do about it, but he was already rummaging around on the shelves in my little car cave, looking for the solution to the issue. Despite it being ten at night, The Electrician had a goal in mind, and like the chivalrous knights many centuries ago, he wasn’t going to leave his damsel in distress, however minor.
His solution was actually much simpler than I planned. My instinct was to protect the door. The Electrician’s fix-it instinct is much more evolved than mine: he fixed the source of the problems. After all, you don’t put armour on a kid who’s being beat up to keep him from being punched by a bully: you subdue the brute to solve the problem.
My sweetie is a problem solver. I love that about him, among many other traits.
For those of you who are still trying to figure out what swear word rhymes with “boil,” there isn’t one that I know of: I was just having a little fun with you. You’re welcome.
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