My wife, Gwynne, loves to bake cookies. Hardly a week goes by without cookie baking, and sometimes, especially during Christmas season, she bakes cookies every day for family, friends & neighbors. Unfortunately, we'd been traveling a lot, so she hadn't been able to bake cookies in a long time, but we were able to make it home the day before Christmas Eve. It was night-time on a Sunday, and it was rainy & cold while Gwynne was happily preparing the batter, but then the most unfortunate thing happened, the power went out. After checking around, I found out it was only our house. I went outside to the Breaker Box: the big 400 Amp input breaker in the box to the oven was bad. Gwynne was really disappointed so I thought I'd do something by calling our friend, Jason, who worked with me on the house and other man stuff.
“Jason,” I said after he answered.
“Yeah?”
“I need to fix the breaker in the house so Gwynne can bake cookies,” I explained.
“It's Sunday night, she can bake cookies tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow's Christmas Eve. We need to get the cookies baked now.”
“What are you talking about? It's night time, and it's raining.”
“Will Home Depot still be open?”
“I don't know,.”
“Stop by Home Depot on the way over here and buy a 400 Amp breaker.”
“I'm not stopping anywhere or buying anything,” Jason said.
When Jason got to my house, he said, “This is the only 400 Amp breaker Home Depot had and it won't fit in the box.”
“It will if we take the fascia off.”
“I'm not taking anything off.”
“Call the power company to get the power turned off while we're working.”
“The Power Company isn't coming out Sunday night in the rain to turn off your power.”
“Call them.”
“I'm not calling anybody,” Jason said.
Jason called, listened for a minute then hung up. “They're not coming.”
“I guess we'll have to do it ourselves.” I said.
“Do what ourselves?”
“Replace the breaker.”
“I'm not replacing anything.”
“Put on these big rubber boots so that you're insulated from the ground.”
“I'm not putting on anything,” Jason said.
We walked around to the Breaker Box.
“Hold these channel-locks,” I said.
“I'm not holding anything.”
While Gwynne was shining a flashlight into the Breaker Box with one hand and holding an umbrella over our heads so we wouldn't get too wet with the other, I took the fascia off, loosened the cables from the bad breaker, and pulled them out, passing the hot wire over for Jason to hold with the channel-locks. Jason was right, the breaker wasn't going to fit.
“You'd have to jam it in there cock-eyed,” Jason said, matter-of-factly.
“Cookies don't care if a breaker is jammed in cock-eyed,” I answered.
I could only get one screw in to hold it, then maneuvered the half-inch thick wires into the slots and was tightening them with a 13mm Allen wrench when it slipped out and hit Jason in the arm. Only him keeping a firm grasp on the channel-locks stopped somebody from getting electrocuted.
Stunned, we all stood motionless for a minute.
Jason finally said, “I think I shit myself.”
“It's a good thing you were wearing those boots,” I said, reassuringly.
“No, really, I shit myself,” Jason said.
We finished up with no other mishaps, and Jason went home.
The next day, Christmas Eve about noon, Jason's car drove into the driveway. Jason got out. “Where are the cookies?” he asked.
“On the counter,” I answered, “but you're diabetic, you can't eat cookies.”
Jason just walked into the kitchen, “If I'm going to risk my life for cookies, I'm going to eat some.”
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