Saturday, November 17, 2012

a devil lives in my garage door opener

Lets not mince words: there is a testosterone sensor in my remote garage door opener.

Don't laugh, I'm dead serious.

For weeks it has been on the fritz, missing no opportunity to piss me off, gradually becoming less and less reliable. But not enough to make me KNOW it was untrustworthy, just enough to make me hold my breath and pray like hell whenever I pushed the button and hoped to gain entry to my home.

Exhibit A: the Demon Opener
Being the logical person I was a week and a half ago about this whole situation, I mentioned to my husband that I think I need a new battery. Then a few more days of squeeze and pray passed and suddenly the day came where it wasn't enough.  Of course this day was one where I was running late, had a very pissed off Beans, bags upon bags of groceries to carry in and it was hotter than the warm section of hell.  So I snapped (my temper can be a tad infamous) and decided that squeeze and pray wasn't enough, maybe throw the mother fawker would be.

It wasn't.

Amazingly, however, it didn't kerslpode into a million pieces revealing instantaneously to my husband that I had gotten a bit frustrated.  So I scooped the damn thing up as I got my stuff and my now screaming kid and brought them all inside.  I put it on the counter so as to *ahem* subtly remind my husband that I needed that battery he said he had.  This was a Friday.  Generally, I don't drive my car on the weekends, the Jolly Green Giant I married does not comfortably fit in my Corolla.  So after the exceptionally busy weekend passes us by, and a few other "hey can you fix my garage door opener"s are uttered, I stupidly assume in all the random crap he did that my usually very considerate husband took care of the opener.


He could reorganize his garage, build a paper towel holder because he wanted to, decide that my car needed cleaned out (no idea why), BUT he couldn't change the battery.

So when I put it back in my car, ran my errands, and went to push the lifeless button ... I did refrain from throwing it again.  Go ahead, applaud.

When Bunyan came home I held it up and asked him if he'd fixed it.  A confused (yet panicked cuz he could see I was displeased) look crossed his face as he said,

"But ... but, nothing is wrong with it."

Exhibit B: Only the smart ones.
After I insisted there was, and he insisted that it worked fine for him I asked him to show me.  And he did.  And that damn door opened with NO problem.

So again, I put it in my car, perplexed but figuring whatever it is it is okay now.

Next day, again when my stress level was pretty high and my time management was at a low, I pushed the button with a mental "Open Sesame" ... and nothing happened.

When Paul Bunyan came home we both went out front with the evil little clicker in tow.  Every time he pressed it the damn thing opened.  Every.  Single.  Time.  Me?  Not once.

Of course he had to be all condescending male on me for a moment "oh well you need to hold it down ... you need to push it in this way ... are you sure you're pressing the right button?"

End result, we traded openers.  That dumb thing is working FINE for him.  Absolutely fine!  Seriously, WTF?  I am telling you, there is without a doubt, a testosterone sensor in the damn thing.

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