Last week, Brad was on my case for “breaking” the disposal (sorry, I feed seven people using a kitchen modeled after Barbie’s ghetto dream house; there’s wear and tear) and, today, the bathroom fan, first installed in the early 1960’s. 

I sarcastically apologized on both accounts and told him if he couldn’t handle fixing things, I’d hire somebody who could.

I tell that story to tell this story: per my previous post, Brad lost his phone and offered to pay the kids to find it.

I spent 30 minutes getting Roo to sleep while they “looked”; no luck.

With God as my witness, I walked out of the baby’s bedroom to the basement, flipped two chair cushions, moved the couch and–thirty seconds after I started searching–had the damn thing in my hand.
Brad, running down the steps: “Honey, I love you. What am I gonna do when you die?”
I know what you’re gonna do before YOU die: replace my bathroom fan.

One thought on “Last week, Brad was on my case for “breaking” the disposal (sorry, I feed seven people using a kitchen modeled after Barbie’s ghetto dream house; there’s wear and tear) and, today, the bathroom fan, first installed in the early 1960’s. 

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