Our kitchen is 30 years old. It has the sorts of problems you might imagine in a kitchen that is original to the house. One of the things that REALLY bugs me is a broken drawer next to the oven. Over the past few weeks Mark has attempted to "do something" about the drawer. Usually, he attempts to "do something" after I have screaming fit because I can't get the drawer to function properly. Tonight was one of those time (minus the screaming fit, however. I was too tired to through fits tonight).
So, we are sitting in the living room, a gaping hole where the drawer should be...
Mark is looking at the computer.
"I'm thinking about going to Menards."
"Need something for the big install tomorrow?" I ask. (Mark has to install some cork boards or something tomorrow morning. He's told me before, but I must admit that I didn't pay much attention).
"No. For the drawer."
He pauses. I look at him.
"I may have... done... something..."
This makes me laugh. Alot.
Several moments later.
"Oh?" I say.
"Ummm, I sort of... took it apart."
This is so funny I know I must blog about it immediately.
"Give me my computer," I say.
A few minutes later (while I am writing this blog) Mark says, "I shouldn't go. Make me stop."
I laugh some more. "Why? What?"
"Should I go? Get a replacement drawer?"
"Because you took the other one apart."
"Yeah. I thought I could fix it." Mark gives me a significant look. I think I may have looked skeptical. "It was BROKEN."
Mark sighs, then puts his shoes on. As I'm typing this, the garage door opens and he backs the car down the driveway.
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