I Sort of Broke My Garbage Disposal But Not Really

You were all wrong about my garbage disposal.

I purchased a condo in 2005 because my folks were nice enough to lend me a down payment. At closing I was able to pick out all the cabinets, countertops, moldings, and appliances. I remember trying to figure out whether to upgrade to the nicer series of appliances. It was several thousand dollars more. But, when I did the math it only added a nickel to my monthly mortgage payment. Done.

I can’t remember if there was an upgrade option for the garbage disposal, but I’m going to assume there was and that I bought the fuck out of it.

The developer told me there was a twelve month guarantee on all appliances. At the time I had a belief that I should break them within a year. You know, to exercise the warranties. I never studied to be a logician, but surely those eggheads would have agreed with this reasoning.

However, I’m kind of a wimp. I never had the courage to put a bowl of copper ball bearings in the microwave or my dog’s astroturf-bathroom-pad that she pees on in the dishwasher. Wait. Upon further review, I never put a bowl of copper ball bearings in the microwave.

I remember my first day in the condo as owner. Even though there were dozens of unopened boxes strewn about, I decided a better use of time would be to restring my guitar. While taking off the strings, I had an idea. I don’t know why this thought came to me, and, while I’m not especially prone to idiocy, this will not convince you otherwise. I chose to take the six old electric strings and see how the garbage disposal would dispose of them.

By the way, I should mention that I was single. No woman would ever let her man operate at such a low level of intelligence.

This, of course, was a horrible decision. The moment I flipped the garbage disposal to on the strings got caught on the blade gears and wrapped around tighter than a mousetrap coil. I had broken the garbage disposal on its virgin voyage. Oh well, it was under warranty.

Worse than being broken was realizing it was not actually broken but that I would need to unwind the guitar strings from each blade to get it back to functioning. This took an hour and I vowed never to screw with my garbage disposal again. Great, now I was lying to myself about future behavior.

A few months later I remembered something my mother used to say about our childhood garbage disposal.

“It’s a little-known fact, but chicken bones actually sharpen the blades!”

I don’t know if I ever saw her do it, but since I heard that statement at least fifty times growing up, it had to be true, right?

I was eating a ton of rotisserie chickens at the time because that’s what bachelors do. They’re seven bucks, already cooked, and you feel like you’re making a healthy choice at the grocery. I probably was putting down two a week.

The challenge with rotisserie chickens iss what to do with the carcass afterward the meal. If you toss them, they stink within twelve hours. I love when people say, “Don’t throw it away – make stock!” Look, I love to cook. I do it all the time and I attempt difficult dishes. But chicken stock is $.29 per gallon. I’m not going to spend $18 in gas heating up gross old chicken bones for six hours.

Before blindly accepting my mother’s maxim I should have typed in “Hey Jeeves, do chicken bones actually sharpen garbage disposal blades?” (Remember, this was 2005 and AskJeeves was the most badass search engine online.)

These days the chicken-bone-sharpening-blade myth has now been disproved as, yes, a myth. It’s still a hell of a lot of fun, though.

I’ve probably jammed over 200 chicken carcasses down the disposal. It’s impressive that those little blades can eviscerate an entire chicken in less than thirty seconds. During the ten years of this behavior I’ve had three or four serious romantic relationships including a marriage. Not one of the women approved of this behavior. But you can’t let someone stand in the way of your happiness.

A week ago the cabinet under my sink flooded. I figured it a stuffed up pipe. Even though I plunged the two sink drains with all my might, I couldn’t dislodge the unknown blockage. Even the dishwasher wasn’t releasing water properly. I admitted defeat and contacted the plumber.

This morning I watched as the plumber unscrewed the trap and j-curve (pipe attached to the garbage disposal) and revealed two huge cracks in the metal. This explained the leak. But what caused these cracks? And, since I’m never afraid to admit when I’m wrong I explained to Ron the plumber my predilection for chicken bone destruction.

He laughed and said that wasn’t the reason the pipe burst. It was just an old pipe that wore out.

Like a stroke victim asking his physician if it’s okay to have sex after surgery, I asked how long I should wait before disposing of another of Perdue’s finest.

Another laugh, but no answer. He presented me with a $500 bill. Even if it was the chicken bones that broke the pipe, $50 a year for all the enjoyment I have received (and will continue to receive) from shoving bones in the disposal seems like a fair trade.

And plus, I might be moving in with my woman soon. Into her place. She isn’t going to let me continue the chicken carcass ritual. Which means I have to do it when she’s not around and lie to her face when she comes back. I’m okay with that.