I live in the Midwest. I've been here for 18 years. It's my husband's fault.
Tuesday, something happened that has never happened before in the history of our marriage and it was down-right sobering.
Tuesday, something happened that has never happened before in the history of our marriage and it was down-right sobering.
The automatic garage door broke.
Mark came home, zipped into the driveway with the music blaring, pressed the magic button and - nothing. He tried again. Nothing. He turned the music down and pressed the button. Nothing. Press. Press. Press. Press. Nothing. Doh!
I was in the house and heard the motor attempting to engage the garage door a gazillion times. So I headed to our mudroom (a Midwest fixture where all manner of ice, snow and melting snow from The Frozen Tundra is managed.) Sizing up the situation, I opened the door to the garage and stuck my head out. Each time Mark pressed the button, the door went up two measly inches only to crash back down. It was the little garage door engine that couldn't. Bummer.
Mark burst through the front door in complete disgust. I rarely see Mark walk through the front door (and rarely see him disgusted); it was a bit disconcerting. He grumbled a few choice words and pushed past me to the garage. He pressed the button in the garage a gazillion more times. Then he manually lifted the garage door, moved my car to the driveway and pulled the garage door behind him.
He came through the front door once again, ushered me into the garage and said, "I need to show you something."
"Geez, don't show me anything; just fix it," I thought.
Being the fine and focused engineer that he is, Mark pointed to the top of the garage door and said, "See those two springs? The one on the left is broken and that's why the door isn't working; it's not able to engage the mechanism to lift the door."
Okey dokey. Just fix it.
"I'll call the garage door people tomorrow," he said.
What? You're not going to fix it?
"What time will you be home?" he asked.
What? You're not going to fix it?
"Hopefully they can fix it in a few days," he added.
What? You're not going to fix it?
"What time are you going to be home?" he asked again.
I guess he's not going to fix it. Bummer.
We've been married 18 years. For the first 16, we lived in garage-free homes. We were used to it. It rained; we sprinted from the car to the house with the groceries and babies in tow. It snowed; we dug ourselves out and invested in remote car starters. We were used to it.
Then we moved to Wisconsin and to a home with a garage. From the moment we first drove into our garage, I knew I was going to love it. I envisioned dry grocery bags in the spring, snow-free vehicles in the winter and the perfect way to make people wonder all year long, "Are they home? Are they not home?" I was smitten with our garage. Now it was broken. Both cars were in the driveway in full view of everybody. Anything could happen. It could snow any minute!
Luckily, the garage door people came out Thursday and installed two shiny new springs. I press the magic button and the door goes up. I press it again and it goes down. Life is good. My groceries are safe and I am back to keeping people guessing as to whether anybody's home or not.
Yet, I'm still somewhat unsettled.
I was in the house and heard the motor attempting to engage the garage door a gazillion times. So I headed to our mudroom (a Midwest fixture where all manner of ice, snow and melting snow from The Frozen Tundra is managed.) Sizing up the situation, I opened the door to the garage and stuck my head out. Each time Mark pressed the button, the door went up two measly inches only to crash back down. It was the little garage door engine that couldn't. Bummer.
Mark burst through the front door in complete disgust. I rarely see Mark walk through the front door (and rarely see him disgusted); it was a bit disconcerting. He grumbled a few choice words and pushed past me to the garage. He pressed the button in the garage a gazillion more times. Then he manually lifted the garage door, moved my car to the driveway and pulled the garage door behind him.
He came through the front door once again, ushered me into the garage and said, "I need to show you something."
"Geez, don't show me anything; just fix it," I thought.
Being the fine and focused engineer that he is, Mark pointed to the top of the garage door and said, "See those two springs? The one on the left is broken and that's why the door isn't working; it's not able to engage the mechanism to lift the door."
Okey dokey. Just fix it.
"I'll call the garage door people tomorrow," he said.
What? You're not going to fix it?
"What time will you be home?" he asked.
What? You're not going to fix it?
"Hopefully they can fix it in a few days," he added.
What? You're not going to fix it?
"What time are you going to be home?" he asked again.
I guess he's not going to fix it. Bummer.
We've been married 18 years. For the first 16, we lived in garage-free homes. We were used to it. It rained; we sprinted from the car to the house with the groceries and babies in tow. It snowed; we dug ourselves out and invested in remote car starters. We were used to it.
Then we moved to Wisconsin and to a home with a garage. From the moment we first drove into our garage, I knew I was going to love it. I envisioned dry grocery bags in the spring, snow-free vehicles in the winter and the perfect way to make people wonder all year long, "Are they home? Are they not home?" I was smitten with our garage. Now it was broken. Both cars were in the driveway in full view of everybody. Anything could happen. It could snow any minute!
Luckily, the garage door people came out Thursday and installed two shiny new springs. I press the magic button and the door goes up. I press it again and it goes down. Life is good. My groceries are safe and I am back to keeping people guessing as to whether anybody's home or not.
Yet, I'm still somewhat unsettled.
I know what happens when cars are parked outside the garage. They STAY there. That's what happened to our cars when I was growing up. Dad had an MG and various parts of it were spread throughout the garage. Then there were sailboat parts and paraphernalia. Dad would probably argue that technically, there was a car in the garage. It just didn't run (an "electrical problem" which is another story).
Lately, my son and husband have been looking at "project" cars. They want to buy some cheap pile of junk and turn it into America's Next Top (Car) Model. They pour over ads and spend hours on the internet looking for the "it" factor. So when the garage door broke, I couldn't help but wonder if it was part of some bigger plan to remove me and my vehicle from the garage. After all, we had spent 16 years without one; it wouldn't take long for me to get used to it again.
So Mark and Soren, if you're reading this: I AM NOT MOVING OUT OF THE GARAGE. I WILL NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT.
Lately, my son and husband have been looking at "project" cars. They want to buy some cheap pile of junk and turn it into America's Next Top (Car) Model. They pour over ads and spend hours on the internet looking for the "it" factor. So when the garage door broke, I couldn't help but wonder if it was part of some bigger plan to remove me and my vehicle from the garage. After all, we had spent 16 years without one; it wouldn't take long for me to get used to it again.
So Mark and Soren, if you're reading this: I AM NOT MOVING OUT OF THE GARAGE. I WILL NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT.
1 comment:
NEVER give in!! You know what happened to me all summer!! Also love the Dylan Thomas reference!
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