Part one, as you may or may not recall, left us in the midst of a garage door operational abnormality. It was Monday, as I returned home in the afternoon, that it really spazzed. I believe it is somewhat similar to an excitable puppy happy to have their owner back after their day at work. It jumps and vibrates and even tries to knock you over as you pass. It leaves you with this warm and fuzzy feeling...really.

Tuesday, my dad came over to look at the pup. He tethered something to someplace and replaced the whatchamacallit with another one because the first doohickey was loose and the thingies were touching without the button being pushed. My father rejoices in the fact that I possess such technical wherewithal. Add that to the fact that my meat consumption is nearly nonexistent and that I haven't consumed butter in four years—to say nothing of my preference for coffee that's more liquid than solid!—and you understand my nervousness about the security of my placement in his will.

Anyway, the garage door has been tamed. So much so, that it ONLY responds to the button that has the thingies no longer touching. The garage door openers—and we have three of them—all pulled a diva act and, with fists glued to hips and noses in the air, they strutted saucily from the runway of functionality. To add insult to injury, the keypad followed suit. Indeed, the garage door no longer opens on a whim—it no longer opens at all...except from the button that has the thingies no longer touching, as I already mentioned. It seems as though we should be able to work around this. So what if the door cannot be opened from outside of the garage? From a vehicle? In the scheme of things, is it really that important?

I was the one put in charge of asking my father about the door in the first place. Fears of the aforementioned will have me nervous to ask too much of this man...but yet, I did it...being assured that my aunts would leave me with a small fortune at their passing if things went too far. I was willing to work through the issues with the door. I was willing to seek counseling and really delve into why it's acting the way it is. I want to retire in Hawaii.

My aunts were less willing to compromise. Brenda can sometimes whine in a way that means she's joking, but it is quite easily confused with the whine she makes while she's being fussy and the whine she makes while she's on the verge of explosion. It is a useful skill she possesses, and I am happy to have picked it up so deftly. "I can't seem to get the remotes to work," she began, commencing of the puppy-dog-eyes. "And the code doesn't work outside!" Brenda does fake tears really well too. So does Miles. I don't so much—but I can pout like nobody's business. You don't need tears when you can make your lower lip tremble, trust me. "Get your dad back over here and make him fix it!" she cried, stamping her foot. My first response? Laughter.

Surely she was kidding. I want Hawaii, dang it! At her continued expression of utmost upset, I shuffled restlessly. "You serious?" My forehead wrinkled in disbelief and my eyes squinted in a "You've GOT to be kidding me" way. You know, she didn't specify that when she wanted the door to quit freaking out that she also wanted the remotes to work. I'm getting a gnawing feeling in my stomach that there will always be something else to fix, and I wonder if the woman will ever be happy. I see no problem in hopping from the SUV on a frigid and snowy evening after work, running to the front door, walking through the house to the kitchen entry to the garage so she can push the button with the thingies no longer touching, walking back out to the SUV, and driving it inside.

She does. She's high maintenance...Dad will be over today to look at it.

Dear lord, I hope I don't have to don the cheesehead again.