The Handyman Can….the Merry Cannot

09 I Wish You’d Die

As an actress turned historian, I have accepted that I am not all that useful.  If the world was coming to an end and they were scrambling for people to save, I’m pretty sure I would be left behind to melt as the sun collided with the earth.  I’m not like the people in the UTA science magazine who are coming up with bone implants, super sonic jets, and some kind of environmentally friendly boat coating that keeps submarines from getting covered in mussels and barnacles.  I couldn’t draw anyone’s blood (although I think I could do this as well as some delightful phlebotomists who have worked their magic on my poor tiny rolling veins) and I can’t fix a car.  I might be able to dye and cut your hair….maybe.  I also cannot grow anything.  I killed a cactus.  I think my only shot would be to jump on that spaceship naked with my best stories ready to make someone laugh.  Because if the world is ending, the serious people need someone to make them laugh (back off Chelsea Handler and Russell Brand).

Of all the things I cannot do, I am the worst at fixing/building stuff.  This also applies to drawing pictures.  I think I was born with a big blank spot in my brain that was supposed to let me look at something then copy it.  During Yoga, I feel that I am right there along with the instructor, feet and body positioned correctly and breathing in and out.  Really I am a twisted up disaster only breathing through my mouth and teetering back and forth.  I would never have to know this, if their weren’t mirrors at the gym.  Although I could guess from the other people glaring at me.  Now when I was a kid, I built lego sets, but somewhere along the way, I lost it.  I don’t know if too much new information came in pushed out my inner copycat or if the lego pictures are just better than all other assembly pictures.

This brings to my current battle with my track lighting.  At first I felt like this was all going along so well.  I unscrewed the side nobs, the little screw and the washer came out (yes I know what that is called) and I unscrewed the bulb.  No electrical shocks, no fires.  But no where on the bulb did it say what kind of bulb it was.  It just said “Phil” which I assume used to be Philips.  So I trot up to Lowes and they hook me up with some new bulbs.  I get home and at first everything is going fine.  I manage to get the first light screwed in and one side back in the side dealy, and then….

BOOM!  The right screw flies out and lands in my oven burner.   And not just in the oven burner, down inside somewhere.  I took out the burner and I can’t find the screw, which means a surprise awaits me the next time I boil water.  So the light is in, but it isn’t hooked up to the track thing.  And I have two more to go.  I think I am going to pass on fixing it anymore today.  That is enough excitement.

While lights talk back to me, bookcases are my mortal enemy.  I hate them.  I hate that stores trick you into a buying a bookcase for $30 and forget to mention that it will take 700 pieces, 30 hours, tools you don’t have, a monkey, and some Klonapin to get the job done.  The last time I attempted to put together a bookcase I really thought it was going well.  Except I didn’t understand what some of the pieces were for and then somehow I put it together backwards.  I got frustrated and decided to try to make it fit together and then it broke my screwdriver.  So after 6 hours, I sat in the middle of it and cried.  Then I tossed it over the balcony in a rage (thank goodness no one was down there or I would be on Women Behind Bars). I know I can ask for help, but I’d rather do it myself.  I know boys, they would come over and help me.  But I really want to be able to do it by myself.  If I can do all kinds of grown up things, why can’t I screw in my lightbulbs?

I’m patting myself on the back for the things I can do (read, write, shower…) and a toast to Betty Blowtorch.  Thank you ladies for this song that reflects my feelings on home maintenance.