How my heart leapt with joy when he mentioned mowing the lawn this afternoon. I made a dramatic show of folding laundry as he exited the house...certain that I had two hours of dawdling time on my hands.
But I made a critical error in returning the laundry basket to the basement, encountering my husband in the garage, wrestling, inexplicably, with the leaf blower. I froze. Oh no.
Now, this would take some tricky maneuvering on my part. Obviously, pointing out the futility of fixing a gadget that gets used once a year, if we're lucky, was not the way to go. The fake offer to help would get me waved off but leave me feeling guilty AND could be used later as evidence that I don't contribute in maintaining the house. We're a BIG 1 Corinthians family: 1 Corinthians 13:5 (Love) keeps no record of wrongs. The Mosimans keep Santa-sized scrolls. I took a deep breath. I was going to have to hover uncertainly around the field of repair...attempting an impossible-to-achieve balance of anticipating what Brad needed and trying (and failing) to not annoy him or get in his way.
My first task was distinguishing tool names and functions. Long pointy-ended pterodactyl tool (Needle-nosed pliers). Pinch-y blunt-ended tool with a pretty purple handle (side-cutter). A screwdriver (I knew that one). I tried to channel my inner-surgical nurse but kept reaching in front of Brad, blinding his view AND handing him the wrong tool the wrong way.
I was then relegated to research. That escalated pretty quickly as Brad kept telling me to type in the part number and Weed Eater. Naturally, I argued. "It's a leaf blower," I explained to my husband who had dismantled a fuel pump, filters, and assorted hoses, "NOT a weed eater." Brad enjoys my silent and complaisant assistance. I wasn't intentionally being obstinate. I just didn't want him to get the wrong part or instructions for a different lawn maintenance do-dad. After several minutes of arguing, Brad set down the pterodactyl to explain that Weed Eater is a brand name like Kleenex. Oh. Why didn't he just say so?
Oh, good! Youtube tutorials!
I expertly fast-forwarded through to get to the relevant sections but Brad stopped me, concerned that we would miss something important. So we watched as repair gurus listed part numbers (twice...in case we wanted to write them down) and explain how they liked this kit because it provides an extra hose but this kit includes an adapter however this kit comes with a handy clap/on/clap/off location sensor because you know every single kit you buy will get lost in that black hole you call a garage. Video #1 didn't completely address our unique situation. Video #2 suggested Video #3 which gave us some handy tricks like cutting our hose on the diagonal, using soap to make the hose slippery ("Oh! Like a lubricant!" I added. "Not now," Brad frowned as I winked at him.), and utilizing a blow dryer to soften the hose so it would fit over the end of the adapter ("Oh, like a cond-" I said. "Stop," my husband answered.).
Now, these were tools I could work with! I rushed upstairs to get the dish soap and my blow dryer.
I went to plug the dryer into a handy outlet that was adjacent to direct lighting and a generous amount of workspace. "That outlet doesn't work," Brad sighed, taking the blow dryer out of my hands to disappear under a stuffed-to-the-gills shelf to plug it in. He wedged a flashlight into a space that somewhat hit his target that was balanced on Brad's shifting ladder that was laying on its side. I was still standing by the non-working outlet, confused. "Come over here," Brad growled at me. "How long hasn't it worked?" I asked. "How long have we owned the house?" my impatient spouse answered. I decided now was not the time to remind him that he's an electrician.
The blow dryer did the trick. Brad refused to use the dish soap to prevent more dirty talk.
The hoses were threaded through successfully (Despite me).
The fuel pump was re-assembled and installed (Despite me).
The bulb-y ball was pumped. Pull cord yanked. The little engine roared to life. And Brad tested it by blow drying my hair.
Success. Despite me.
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