Hey honey, I broke the disposal.

Seth and I have an on-going rift about the garbage disposal.

I discovered one day, as I threw mushroom caps into the sink for disposal, that he doesn't think we should actually be using this appliance.  I turned around from the stove to find him shoveling the scraps into his hands to throw in the garbage.

Me:  What are you doing?
S:  I'm throwing these away. 
Me:  They can just go down the disposal...?
S:  Some stuff is way too fibrous to go down the disposal.
Me (with a snicker and a pre-eyeroll look on my face):  Too fibrous? 
S (immediately on the defense):  Yeah.  I'm just trying to prevent wear and tear.  You know what?  Let's just both mind our own business with regards to the disposal.  And not talk about this anymore.
Me (voice dripping with sarcasm):  Yep. You're right.  Those mushrooms are WAY too fibrous to go down the disposal.  And you know what?  Let's prevent wear and tear on the washer and dryer too.  We can just start going to the laundry mat.  Also, we should probably stop using the toaster, the coffee maker, the toilets, and the computer...might as well save them too.  Cool?
S:  You are the worst.

And with that, we agreed to stop talking about our own disposal preferences.  I used it (for normal stuff, like egg shells, carrot and potato shavings, the occasional scrape of a plate...) and Seth didn't.  

After we had the "too fibrous" discussion, I felt weird every time I turned on the disposal, like Seth was quietly cursing me.  It's not like I could hear him over that satisfying chop, gurgle and whir.  So in the evenings, to avoid what I was sure was Seth's disapproval, I would just flip it on and off real quick, then figure the rest could wait until he went to work in the morning.  Until one morning, when I flipped the switch and nothing happened but a low, humming sound.  "Shit!" I thought.  "Shit! Shit! Shit!"  Now I would have to tell Seth it was broken, at which point his overuse argument would come in very handy.  

I could not let that happen. Obviously.  So I quickly found my resolve and decided I would fix it before Seth ever found out it was broken.  I summoned my neighbor Jenny, handed her a beer, swore her to secrecy, and then we got to work discussing our knowledge of disposals.  We had none.  But two college graduates could figure this out, right?  Surely my degree in economics would be helpful, and Jenny, being a brilliant high school English teacher, could rely on her own prowess. 

Jenny and I took turns, bravely plunging wrist deep into the bowels of the sink, which everybody knows is the worst idea ever, obliterating the number one rule of fixing disposals.  We found three noodles and a piece of an egg shell.  Perplexed, we each cracked another beer, and while I Googled "Fix the Disposal so My Husband Doesn't Win this Fight", Jenny cleared out the stuff underneath the sink.  

We tried EVERYTHING.  We tried to turn the blades from beneath with every size of Allen Wrench available to us, we checked the fuse box, we punched the reset button.  No matter what we did, the blades did not budge.  They had quite literally grinded to a halt, like every woman's digestive system while on vacation...zero movement, no hope of evacuation.  

We gave up before Seth came home and caught us with our hands down the disposal, but I still wasn't ready for a full on admission.  Fortunately for me, his non-use meant that I had time to keep up the charade of a fully functioning garbage disposal until it better suited me to tell him.  

Which I've decided is...right now.  Hey honey, I broke the disposal.  

But don't you worry.  I already fixed it.  While you were at work, I dabbled in the profession of plumbing, and I totally nailed it.  I'm the best appliance repair-woman you've ever married, and don't you forget it.

SAME CAR!

We play a game in my family called "Same Car!"  It goes like this:

• If we see our same car (a Honda Element), we yell out "SAME CAR!" and if it's the same color as ours (black), we yell either "SAME CAR! DOUBLE!" or "SAME-SAME CAR!"
• If we see a car like my mom's (LL calls her "Nama"), we yell "NAMA CAR!"
• Then there are the occasional other vehicles thrown in... "Toddfather Car!", "Miss Jenny's Car!", "Jack and Will Car!"

Whoever yells first, wins. And we keep score of how many cars we identify.  Every day. Because this is a family of fierce competitors.  Just last night while playing UNO, Lakeland laid a draw two on her dad and said "Boom. I am JACKING fools."  (I realize and appreciate that this type of expression is inappropriate for a three year old. Unless we're playing cards. She's allowed to talk shit while playing cards, and she follows this rule fairly well.) We pretty much turn anything that can be remotely competitive into a competition.

Anyway, back to "SAME CAR!" There are dire consequences if you misidentify a car.  They involve dropping and doing push-ups, wherever you may be at the time of your blunder. For instance, while walking to the car from the grocery store, I busted out "Nama Car!" and was immediately called on the carpet for my error.  But I play by the rules, and so I set down my items right there in the parking lot and did 3.5 push-ups. LL was as delighted to see me pay up as she was to have corrected me. 

The other night, Seth (a.k.a. Best. Dad. Ever.) mentioned that he'd like us to take Lakeland on a special trip.  To a car dealership.  So she can yell out "SAME CAR" or "NAMA CAR" 80 thousand times. Which would make her, and all of us really, so very happy.  I think we are going to take her for her birthday.