My Dreamy Repairman Hero

Sunday afternoon, I wanted to bake a cake.  Some of you may know that I absolutely adore baking. For those of you who didn't, guess what?! I love to bake!

I mixed everything up, and it was all set to go. Then I ran out of time. We had to go pick up the two kids from the in laws.

So I covered it and stuck it in the fridge.  When we finally got home, after ear piercing hours of being in the van together, finally the kids were in bed. I turned on the oven and waited for it to preheat.  And then I waited some more... and some more.. and some more.

Shit. The oven was dead.

Tried the burners and they worked.  Off I went to search on Dr Google.

With a process of elimination and my master google search skills, I figured that it was most likely the igniter that was dead.

Of course at some point before figuring out that it was most likely the igniter, I did curse and swear, mostly direct at my husband in frustration, begging him to freaking fix the damn thing. He asks do I really want him to do that? He's got a good point.

So I send off an email to the landlord, and get met with a reply that basically says, hahaha, you suck. Pay for it yourself.
Back to google I go (where I live it's illegal for a landlord to try and pull this stunt) and I send off a great witty reply and he agrees to pay for the repair.

I found a repairman and set up the visit. Don't worry, they called the landlord and got his credit card number first!

So this afternoon, Steve, came over to fix the oven.

I have to say, I sincerely appreciate that Steve knows how to buy pants that fit, also that he wears a belt. I mean, it's a cute butt and all. Butt cracks just aren't that appealing to me though.

Dr Google treated me well. It was indeed the igniter. Thankfully, Steve brought one with him, and replaced it in what I can only assume is record time. I'm pretty sure between having all four kids home, crowding him out and watching him work his magic and the dog growling when he first knocked on the door enticed him to get the work done, and get the hell out of here.

Within no time at all. Voila. A repaired oven, and I can now bake my cake. Yum. (uh, yum to both Steve and the cake).

PS, Anyone have suggestions on how I can break it so I can have another visit from Steve?

PS, I know this blog post isn't exciting. Forgive me. I just really wanted to share the pictures I was able to score of this guy with the rest of you! (Don't hate, you know he's cute!)

The Adventures of moving a Couch

Picture this..

You go with your husband and buy a new couch set. It's lovely.
Kids haven't destroyed it (yet) and you'd love for it to stay that way for at least a week, two if you're freaking brilliant and the stars align just so, and your kids aren't out to get you for something. (Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about.)

    

^ Love Seat                                                            ^ Couch

You bring it home, and you make the big mistake of forgetting about the hell you went through to bring the first set in when you moved in.

You do in fact manage to get it inside the house. On the main floor. Where your kids go ape shit bat crazy and destroy things.

So, you plan your attack for a few days. Did I mention that you managed to convince your in laws to take two of the kids for the weekend?

Well, it's obvious the weekend is over. That set needs to get out of harms way before it's too late. The baby has already managed to pee on it. (Sigh).
You need it to get into the den and pronto.

So, you attempt to move it through your upstairs livingroom, into the landing and down the stairs. Shit. The couch is too wide to fit through the damn door at the top of the stairs at the landing.

Plan B comes into action.  You remove the front door AND the side door. You bring the couch back through the livingroom, and forget how you brought it in through the front door to begin with. You stand and ponder for twenty minutes or so. (Really, you're already exhausted a need a break. You really aren't thinking anything but F&CK ME, is this over yet?!)

You finally manage to get it back outside the house, in one piece.  (Insert round of applause here, please).

This is the point in the story where your husband tells you that it won't fit through the side yard door. You have to lift it over your head. (This is where the cursing your husband happens)

So, you get it over the fence, into the yard.  You're now at the door leading inside to the landing with the door thats too small, and a tight corner leading downstairs.

Again, you try to regroup and plan an attack.

And fail. Miserably.

And that's when you realize you could have squeezed that couch through that doorway that was too small half an hour ago. You round the corner and end up back in your livingroom.

Where your new couch set is destined to be destroyed. Within the week.

True story.