Repair job 1,456

We need to redo our kitchen. It's been on the list for some time, and we had gotten estimates at one point. But two kids were in college, then the pandemic came, and it all fell by the wayside. But our mauve (need I say more) formica is detaching from the wall, the cabinet doors break, and Tom has repaired the pull-out garbage can several times.

When it broke again, he shrugged and said we'd have to live with it. This break was the worst. Before, the can either didn't pull out far enough or it was hard to push in. In this break, the damn thing just fell every time we used it--right on our toes. 

After a few days of this, I decided I was fixing it. Blog readers and family know I had a dad who repaired everything. We rarely called in an expert because my dad was one. A few days before he died, I called him about a repair job in my home. 

He was the man.

I have his genes. Plus, I spent a lot of time watching him work. That was more interesting to me than cooking in the kitchen. 

So, I set about repairing it. The garbage can sits inside an encasement that slides into a hole in the cabinetry. I pulled the encasement out to assess the situation but got distracted cleaning the recess. It was gross. That took considerable time, and I had to crawl into it, which meant getting on my hands and knees. 

In there, I found the issue. The encasement runs on a track, and the track had pulled away from the sides--multiple times, by the look of things. The screws were goners, sliced in half, and worthless, so I hunted for new screws in the garage. It's a little bigger than a one-car garage and organized by Tom's hand, meaning I'm clueless. But I found screws, retrieved the electric drill, and worked inside the hole. Madison wandered into the kitchen.

Maddy: "What is happening?"

Me: "I'm putting an asshole on a hobby horse."

See? I even talk like my dad.

Maddy: "Oh, good, because I can't tell you how many times that can has fallen on my foot. Do you want some help?"

I did. She's young. She can get down on the tile floor, and she did. It wasn't easy. We needed the drill to start the holes, and we switched out the electric screwdriver for a manual, which I did before turning over the electric screwing to Madison.  

We had to do it three times. The first time was a smidge off, and the can closed but needed a firm hand. We opted to try again. It was too high the second time, and we had to unscrew and start again.

Me: "You should put that screw somewhere safe so you won't lose it. That's something your dad is always telling me."

Maddy: "I'm putting it right here next to me."

Me: "That's not exactly safe. I had my screws in a bowl."

Maddy: "And I have mine here next to me." 

Okay, I let her be. Instead, I washed the garbage can, stopped to assist Maddy for a minute, returned to it, finished it, and dried it. Something was poking me in my slipper, and I took it off and shook it out. 

You see where I'm going, don't you? God, I love foreshadowing. 

Maddy: "Where's the screw?"

Me: "What screw? The one I told you to put someone safe?"

Maddy: "Yes. Did you take it?"

Me: "I did not."

She found another one in the garage and returned to drilling. Since we were near the end, I began cleaning up the materials.

Me: "Dammit! Something is in my slipper. I can't see a thing, but I feel it every time I put it on and walk."

Yep. 

I couldn't stop laughing. Because if you knew my dad, this is precisely the stuff that happened to him when he did repair jobs.

I learned well at the master's knee. 

We finished and didn't tell Tom. He found out when he pulled out the can to throw something away. He was thrilled, if not a bit judgmental.

Pfft.