We So Brawny

It may come as a surprise to you that the Thevictorian family is quite strong. Muscular. Burly. I will stop short of claiming that we can each rip a telephone book in half. Though we probably could if it was a Backroads telephone book and not a New York City telephone book. And for those of you who are asking, "What in tarnation is a telephone book?" I say, "Go to bed, you wily whippersnappers! You're too young to be up this late."

Yes, we Thevictorians are musclebound. We don't know our own strength. We could beat Popeye in an arm-wresting contest. AFTER he had downed a can of spinach! We'd make Paul Bunyan appear to be a wormy pantywaist in need of a good dose of cod liver oil. BamBam Rubble would have looked like a mewling newborn kitten next to our strapping lads.

You know how it is. You become comfortable with your abilities, and think nothing of them. You go about your daily life on automatic pilot. Until a precipitating event jolts you back to reality.

My culinary prowess, discussed far and wide, from one corner of Backroads to another to another to another...seems to have been my undoing. Perhaps you've heard that Val does not so much "cook" as she warms foods in the microwave, or heats them in the oven. My repertoire has been hacked in half.

Thursday morning, I packed up the lunches and reached for the microwave handle to warm my two mini sausage biscuits. Imagine my surprise when it popped out like a pump handle on the upswing. With a loud CRACK, to boot! Huh. My long black plastic microwave door handle, shaped like a bow, attached at top and bottom...was now only attached at the top. Val is nothing if not resourceful. And hungry for mini sausage biscuits in the morning. I grasped the top attachment area of the microwave handle. Pinched it between thumb and forefinger. I could still get the door open.

Fortified by my mini sausage biscuits, I shot off a text to Hick so he would know that the microwave door handle was broken. He texted back, "Okay." Like he had a say in the matter, giving me permission after the fact. I hate it when he does that.

After a late night at the board meeting for a student recognition ceremony, the Thevictorian family once again convened at home. Hick stopped on his way back to pick up some epoxy. He took out the top and bottom screws, slathered that handle in glue, then reattached it. "There. We will order a new one anyway, because we're probably going to need it down the line." I don't know about your definition of down the line, but I somehow expected it to be longer than ten hours.

Friday morning, when I reached for the microwave handle to warm up my mini sausage biscuits, the entire assembly came off in my hand. So close. But yet so far. I had mini sausage biscuits waiting. So I stuck my fingernails up under the bottom of the door, and pried it open. Nothing comes between Val and her mini sausage biscuits. Oh, and I made sure to send a text to Hick. "Good job. Now the whole handle broke off." As you might imagine, Hick replied. "Okay."

Friday night, Hick headed to his basement workshop. I heard him rummaging, but was not invested enough to check on his progress. It was still twelve hours until I needed mini sausage biscuits. The Pony ran upstairs for some ice water, and came back with news from the microwave front. "You won't have to worry about the microwave anymore! Dad put TWO handles on the door!"

Of course this news set off an alarm bell in the back of my head. A microwave door should not need two handles. When I went upstairs, this is what I found.

I don't mean to brag, but I think I'm the only woman in Backroads with drawer knobs for her microwave handle(s).