I just stared at him, confused, trying to remember the last time he was in a state that would require me to act as designated driver.
Oh yeah! A year ago, DH had minor surgery, and after waking up in recovery and trying to convince both me and the nurse that he was perfectly okay to drive himself home, he relented and let me do the honors.
Then the derecho hit and we were left with quite a mess.
So one year later we're sitting in our living room on a 90° day and I hear a noise. Not a really bad, the high-voltage power line just blew a hole in the neighbors' driveway kind of noise, but one that concerns me.
"Something's wrong with the attic fan," I say to DH.
"The attic fan. Something's wrong. It sounds like...like the motor is running but the fan isn't kicking on."
DH, which in this instance refers to "Distracted Hubby," replies, "uh huh." My fault really, we just picked up an airsoft gun for target practice/squirrel deterrent and he's understandably enthralled.
|Old-ass attic fan, Glamour Shots style.|
Why? Well, because as all really old, crappy-ass fans are wont to do, it broke. Spun itself right of the shaft, it did. And now it's in our living room.
So while DH is on a quest to find a replacement for a fan that is quite possibly older than either one of us, I say to you, dear reader (hi, Mom!), happy summer, and may your attic fans be in better shape than ours.