Though the Twirl review remains overdue at Cranky Lesbian, I wanted to check in and say that I’m fine. My shoulder has been in bad shape, which is frustrating. But I’m almost done with a spate of home improvement project meetings that have sopped up whatever free time I’ve had lately that wasn’t spent rubbing my shoulder and cursing.
When we bought our current house, we knew that we’d need to modernize its 1930s-era bathrooms and replace or restore some of its windows (a mixture of original stained glass, original wood, and an ill-advised smattering of aluminum). We’re slowly chipping away at those and other repairs, and recently I’ve collected quotes from estimators and salesmen whose unimaginative pitches eventually made me realize that my thoughts on vinyl windows in a house like this are similar to how Joan Crawford felt about wire hangers.
Older salesmen often ask “What does your husband do?”, a question that’s as amusing as it is annoying. Only rarely am I asked what I do, so it feels both sexist — as if they’re implying the house belongs to an imaginary husband more than me — and presumptuous (seeing as I rarely wear my wedding band). You never know if you’ll be treated more shabbily once they realize you’re gay, but it doesn’t stop me from replying “My wife works at [name of hospital].”
Usually the questions end there. But a certain type of straight guy can’t help himself from replying “Ah, a nurse!”, which again poses a quandary. Do I correct another sexist assumption or do I keep my mouth shut, lest they jack up the price? Today was going to be my first day in a while with no scheduled calls or meetings — no risk of inquiries about how I, a mere woman, was able to purchase my home — and I was excited. The plan was to exercise, shower, then make a quick lunch and complete my Twirl writeup.
After finishing with the stove, I had soapy saucepans in the sink and a dish ready to pop into the oven when I noticed the preheating process had stalled and there was, perhaps, a gas odor. I say ‘perhaps’ because Crankenstein has raised concerns about my sniffer, so as I opened a window and turned on the range hood, it was time to quickly evaluate my options. Asking a neighbor to offer her opinion was a no-go; she’s a lawyer caricature who would apologetically decline due to fear of liability.
Instead I did a quick tour of the house to verify the maybe-smell, which soon dissipated, was isolated to that part of the kitchen, and with a sigh I called an appliance repair company to set up yet another appointment. If there’s a problem, it might be as simple as needing a new igniter. And if there’s not a problem I’ll accept that I’m paranoid and happily pay the diagnostic fee. But whatever the repairman tells me tomorrow, I hope he doesn’t ask what my husband does for a living.
Update: Bad igniter. Won’t be fixed until next week, unfortunately, which necessitates another appointment.