My Knife

I like this guy who’s here from the gas company, replacing our gas meter. I appreciate anyone who comes into our home, because it’s always an adventure.

Of course he has to cut into our basement closet wall, so that he can actually reach the shut-off valve. As in: the hole is not big enough to, you know, SHUT OFF GAS…YOU KNOW… IN CASE OF AN EMERGENCY.

Gas Company Man came to inform me of this unsurprising surprise, and to ask if it would be okay to use “my husband’s knife downstairs.”
“The utility knife? First of all, it’s mine. My mother gave it to me. Secondly, of course. If you need it, I also have a saw attachment for my drill.”

Truth? I can’t remember if that particular knife is the one I brought to college, or if it was The Swedelock’s originally. And, sure, sure my husband technically bought our drill after we bought our house. But I’ll be damned if I let patriarchy stand in my kitchen without speaking up.

Also: Because our home is so consistently our home, Gas Company Man called to cancel his final appointment of the day. Because he knows this is going to take a while. 

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One Response to My Knife

  1. Mom says:

    You go girl.

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