Saturday night Gary and I were getting ready to go to a fundraiser party to support a local children's charity. We only have one bathroom, but I've been doing a tandem you shower while I apply makeup dance since I was old enough to wear makeup, so it's not a big deal.
Gary was in the shower and I was minding my own business, blow drying out my massive head of hair when the lights went out.
After a year of running my blow dryer on the RAZOR ONLY outlet in the light fixture, THAT was the day the breaker blew.
Now, I thought the whole reason I moved in with a man was to avoid the following situations:
Negotiating with Vermin
Anything involving electricity
I am perfectly capable of dealing with all of the above on my own, but y'know, sometimes it's refreshing to not have to worry about standing in the dark trying to remember where the breaker box is.
The breaker box, for the record, is down the hall.
Gary, being in the shower so both wet and unclothed, did not volunteer to get out of the shower and resolve our situation.
So I padded down the hall, swung open the door to the utility space and started fiddling with switches.
Did I mention that the garbage chute is in this same room? And that the door closed behind me? And that the room is pretty creepy to begin with? And that when the really nice lady who lives at the end of the hall flung the door open to throw her garbage down the chute I scared the CRAP out of her?
So anyway. Note to self. Try to hold door open with foot when restoring light to apartment.
Or get boy to do it.
1 day ago