We had the electrician in. We had a long to-do list. The electrician did some of the list and is coming back next week with the parts to do the rest. He gave us an estimate of both time and money. We gave him a check. We handled it and it is supposed to stay handled. For at least, you know, a week.
But now, the light over the kitchen sink has stopped working. It is not a regular light -- even I can just change a regular light bulb. It is a special light and I am flummoxed.
"Ah," Jonathan says. "It needs a new baklava." (In actuality, he says a technical, light-and-electricity-related word starting with "b" that means nothing to me and that I immediately dismiss from my consciousness.)
Jonathan then buys a new baklava and disassembles the light and removes the old baklava and puts in the new baklava. I watch, rapt. But the light still doesn't work. He does various things, most of which seem to be turning the light off and on again repeatedly, but nothing happens. (To be clear, I did not marry him for his electrical expertise -- I married him for his body.) I wander off.
We will tell our new best friend the electrician about this when he comes again this week and hope he can figure out what is wrong. He seems to know his stuff and is very kind.
But I look around the house suspiciously, trying to figure out what will go on the fritz as soon as he leaves. It may be electrical or it may be something else entirely. The gods like to keep us guessing. They are assholes like that.
