Our electrician’s name is Fred. Fred likes to talk. Yesterday, after fixing a broken relay, he settled in for a gab session. He noticed that our cockatoo is plucking herself and wondered whether, like horses, birds chewed on things when they didn’t have salt blocks. He suggested that it’s best to weigh oneself every 18 months – that way you alternate between the heavy season (winter) and the light one (summer). He opined that these days everyone’s doing their cabinets in cherry, not maple as I had planned. Then he told me a story.
One day his wife’s dishwasher broke. Being married to a man of considerable reparative talent, she naturally expected him to fix it. He said he’d get to it, and he did mean it. But other things got in the way. There was always something more pressing, besides she could wash the dishes by hand, couldn’t she? After a few days of semi-patient waiting, she went on strike. Dirty dishes piled up on the sink, then on the counter. Finally he asked what she was (or wasn’t) doing.
She said, “I’m going to take away that nifty new cordless drill you just bought.” “What?” he wondered, “How am I supposed to do my job then?” “That is exactly my point,” the wise woman explained. “You need your tools to do your job. My dishwasher is a tool.” “Ah!” Sighed the loving husband, “Get your coat on, we’re going out.” Now it was her turn to wonder, “What? Aren’t you going to repair the dishwasher?” “Nope. We’re going to R.C. Willey. I’m going to buy you a brand new dishwasher and then we’re going out to dinner!”