Maybe it’s a product of my English upbringing, as they don’t exist in England, or maybe I’ve seen too many American horror films, but I just don’t trust those things. I know there is an on/off switch, but there are ghosts in machines, faulty wiring, and malicious wives. Who’s to say that when I stick my hand in there, it won’t suddenly switch itself on?
When I first moved to the US, I never went near the disposal in our apartment. Julie would catch me trying to sneak food items out to the trashcan.
“Where are you going?” she’d ask.
“What’s in your hand?”
Julie forced me to face my fear and I do use the disposal now and again. There was a moment of joy a couple of years ago when the disposal choked on a chicken bone and died. Good, I thought, that’s the end of you. But Julie insisted on a replacement. The new one spits at me–and only me–when I use it.
From time to time, the thing jams, but I don’t go near it. I let Julie fix it. Let her find out what I know, the hard way.