A couple of weeks ago Hubby and I drove to Ann Arbor to visit my mom. She’d called to say she had a small household item that needed fixing during the visit but we wouldn’t need to bring tools.
I say “we,” but really I mean Hubby. I inherited my fear of caulking, plumbing and anything requiring power tools directly from my mother. I feel that any time I do more than clean or decorate the house I have brushed shoulders with that guy from This Old House. My slam-dunk intimidation by house fix-it work goes so far that I include changing light bulbs if it means I have to use a step-stool in the “I have just brushed shoulders with that “This Old House Guy” category. If the lightbulb changing requires an actual ladder I make Hubby do it.
In any case, we arrive at Mom’s and the problem is immediately obvious.
“Her garage door is stuck half open,” I say.
“Could be worse,” Hubby replies, “Could be stuck half shut.”
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