Home Improvement
Two days ago, I installed a rack in the garage for hanging bicycle helmets on. This made me deliriously happy.
Why? you may ask, and the reason is that it worked. I found the drill, I located the drill bits, I found two wall anchors (matching! no less) AND two screws that would fit in them, I found a hammer and a pencil, I marked the spots I needed to drill, and when it was time to hammer in the wall anchors, for once I did not hit them crooked and end up with some useless, deformed piece of plastic hanging at a 30-degree angle from a hole in the wall. And then, to top it off, the screws actually went in cleanly, and when I was done I had an actual rack. Hanging on the wall. And it was not crooked. Whoo-HOOO!
When it comes to home improvement, I am just one step ahead of the proverbial chimpanzee chained to the grand piano--you know, the one who, given a couple of hundred thousand years or so, could, in theory, compose the Moonlight Sonata. Which is not to say I don't keep trying. God knows I try. As every psychologist knows, the principle of intermittent reinforcement--succeeding at something every once in a great while--is a far more potent motivator than actually being good at something all the time. This principle is the only reason Las Vegas stays in business, and it's the only rational explanation for why my zest for home improvement remains undimmed despite a long record of failure.
What long record of failure? Let's see. There was the time my roommate, Patti, and I decided to install a dimmer switch in the dining room. We bought the kit, read the instructions, took off the wall plate...and ended up with a light which refused to go off at all. Not only did it not dim, you could have performed brain surgery in there. Major bummer. Then there was the time I decided I didn't need to call a plumber for a tiny little drip under the bathroom sink; I'd just get a wrench and tighten that baby up myself. Who knew that bathroom sink pipes can crumple like aluminum foil? Well, they can, if the pipes are old enough, and ours were. Mop-up operations after that little procedure took a couple of hours, plus the plumber's bill was ginormous. Does the UPS man bring a box that says on the outside "Some Assembly Required"? I'm all over it...until I get to the point where the goddamn screw won't go into the hole marked because I can't hold the shelf up just so while my glasses are sliding down my nose and what semi-literate person WROTE these instructions, anyway? And where do they live? Because I'd like to strangle them. And so I stomp off and curse under my breath and wait until the husband gets home and it just KILLS me that I have to depend on a great big hairy may-un to take over and finish what I started. I should be able to, goddamit.
So here I am, dying to prove my savvy and independence, my feminist bona fides, and instead I'm getting the persistent message from the cosmos: PUT DOWN THAT HAMMER AND BACK AWAY SLOWLY.BEFORE SOMEONE GETS HURT. Will I listen? No, I will not. I am Woman. Hear me roar! (Right after I wham my finger purple.)
I have, however, owned up to my disability insofar as plumbing is concerned....which is why, come next Wednesday, I am heading down to the hardware store with my friend Sparks the Plumber, on a mission to buy a new toilet. (The one in the basement is one of the original low-flow models and between that and the fact that it's located below the sewer line....well, you don't want to know.) I am looking forward to this, since I know Sparks will give me an in-depth disquisition on every aspect of the installation procedure, which will more than satisfy my Inner Handyperson. It's a vicarious thrill.
And while I'm on the subject of home improvement, I'd like to say thank you to our neighbors across the cul de sac, who came to our housewarming party and gave us a $20 gift card to Home Depot. You, my friends, just helped subsidize our new crapper. Between the bicycle helmet rack and the prospect of a new toilet--well, if things get any more exciting, I may have to go lie down.
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