The DIY Project

I usually outsource my do-it-yourself projects.

I'm not proud of that.  But when God blessed me with my extra pogo-sticking/jump rope gene he had to sacrifice another.  There went my DIY gene.  (And perhaps my cooking gene.)

Last night I had a huge project looming in front of me.  And it had to be finished by Friday.

Which left no time to farm it out.  If it was going to get done, I would have to do it myself.

The project required a screwdriver and a screw.

I checked in my garage workshop to see if I had the necessary tools.

Of course, I didn't.

I asked Dave if he thought Food Lion would have the tools I needed to complete my project.  He told me probably not.

Damn.  I'd have to drive to Walmart.  

I pictured myself looking for the tools in Walmart.  All those aisles.  It was overwhelming.

I was about to give up when Dave reminded me of my roots.  Blaine Clyde.  My Dad.  Who changed his own oil.  Who took things apart just to put them back together.  Whose genes I did not inherit. 

Was I adopted??

I decided to go to CVS.  I knew it would cost more, but time is money.  And I became fast friends with the salesclerk who helped me search all over the store and finally find the tools I needed.

 

When I got home I opened the package and pulled out the miniature screwdriver and the minuscule 5 screws.   I picked up my favorite one-armed pair of sunglasses, its amputated arm, and went to work.

It was the most challenging project I've faced since I stripped wallpaper in 2015.

Unfortunately, the eyeglass repair kit did not include an electron microscope. The itsy-bitsy notch atop the teeny-tiny screw that the $#&%# screwdriver fits into was invisible to the naked eye.    

And I had to turn that stupid screw to reattach the amputated arm!!

Now, I have very small hands.  But it was near impossible to grip the Barbie Doll screwdriver and hold it in place in the notch while turning the damn-nappid screw.  

(I may have made up that last word.  It's my prerogative.)

The screwdriver kept slipping and stabbing my thumb.  I needed 6 stitches.

(Okay, I'm exaggerating.  Again, it's my prerogative.)

However, I am pleased (and proud) to announce that after 29 attempts and just 2 band aids, I was successful. 

I'm pretty sure I wasn't adopted.  And Blaine Clyde would be proud.

Beetle Mania

As soon as I saw the Japanese Rhinoceros Beetle Earrings on the Japan Trend Shop web site I knew I must have a pair.

Imagine the fun I would have!   I mean, it looks like that stinkin' thing is crawling O.U.T. of her E.A.R. 

(I love doing that period between the letter thing.) 

But I really couldn’t justify the $40 price tag.  And that’s for just one earring. 

I mean, really.... Why would I spend $80 for a pair of Japanese Rhinoceros Beetle Earrings when I could make my own?

I was a bit disappointed to find that the Dollar Store was out of toy beetles. I had no choice but to look at Walmart, where I wandered the toy department unsuccessfully. 

Nothing.  Are you kidding me?  No toy beetles?!! What is wrong with this world? 

I asked an employee if they had any rubber cockroaches.

"You mean the ones that you get to scare people?” he asked. 
“I guess.”

“Well, what are you going to do with it?”

“Make cockroach earrings."

 “I don't think we have any,” he said as he walked away. 

I finally found a bag of plastic bugs in the party favor department.  But they were pastel colored.  I'm sorry, but who is going to be fooled by a stinkin' pastel Palmetto bug?

Then I had a scathingly brilliant idea.  The fishing aisle had bugs.  Bugs that fooled fish.  If they fooled fish, they would certainly fool my friends.  And co-workers.

Did I ever score.  I found the grossest, most realistic package of bait I could ever imagine.

Finally!  

I grabbed the package of Crazy Legs Chigger Craw and went to the craft section to pick up some earring wire.

What was that smell?  

These people of Walmart need to shower.  Gross.

I stopped at the pharmacy to get a prescription.  Again.  That smell.  People, it’s 100 degrees outside.  You have to wear deodorant. 

When I was checking out of the store I came to the realization that my Crazy Legs Chigger Craw was scented.  To attract fish.  

It was not the People of Walmart.  It was my Crazy Legs Chigger Craw.

There’s no way I was going to have Crazy Legs Chigger Craw earrings within 3 inches of my nose.

I had no choice but to purchase the pouch of pastel beetles. When I got home I picked out the most realistic looking critter in the bag and went to work.  

I just had to saw him in half and insert the earring stud.

Ta-da!

I think my new earrings are amazing. 

 

That beetle may not look realistic, but he does match my hat.

The Trash Can

Dave’s favorite Christmas present this year came from me.

Yep.  I bought him the hideous, plastic kitchen trash can. 

To replace my lovely stainless steel one.  With the foot pedal. 

You see, nobody in the house could figure out how to put in a new liner.  Except for me.

For two years I had heard nothing but complaints about that trash can. 

“It’s not that complicated,” I’d explain for the umpteenth time.  “You just tighten the bag around the top and then push the ties through the hole.”
Unfortunately, Dave and Linda were in the “special class.” 

They refused to deal with it.  I’d come home to this:

And this:

Then one day I noticed a plastic grocery bag sitting on the kitchen counter.  With trash in it.

“Ugh!  What is this??”

“Oh.  Your trash can was full and I couldn’t replace the bag.”

Somehow, it had become “my” trash can.  (Kind of like how Kevin is my dog when he’s naughty.)

I gave up.  You can’t train chimpanzees to jump on pogo sticks.  Similarly, you can’t train Dave and Linda to replace trash can liners in my perfectly functional and attractive stainless steel kitchen trash can.

Several weeks before Christmas I began my search for a replacement kitchen trash can.  I came home empty handed every time.   I just couldn’t bring myself to buy one.

I loved my trash can.  

On December 23rd I stood in front of an entire wall of trash cans at Bed, Bath and Beyond, a blue 20% off postcard dangling from my fingers. 

Not one of the twenty-seven trash cans on display looked better than my loyal trash can with the foot pedal.

And they all had the same sort of replacement bag system, which requires tightening the liner and pushing the ties through a hole. 

Except, of course, the (gulp) plastic ones.

I began hyperventilating. 

I called Kimmy.  “I can’t do it!”
“Can’t do what?”
“Buy a new kitchen trash can,” I said, my voice raising an octave.  
“Why not?”
“I need your help!!!” I wailed as I ran out of the store, the postcard fluttering to the ground where it landed in a cold dark puddle.  

Kimmy promised to go to Walmart with me the next day.

Christmas Eve at Walmart was a cacophony of craziness.  Last minute shoppers crowded every aisle buying gifts for their loved ones and hunting friends.  Thankfully, we were the only ones buying a last minute kitchen trash can.

“Look they all have the same replacement bag system!” I stated.  “The system that your Dad can’t master.” 

“Not the plastic ones,” Kimmy observed.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

“Suck it up, Mom.  This is for Dad, not you.”

We picked out a very ugly black plastic kitchen trash can.  

Kevin could replace its liners if he had opposable thumbs. 

The rest is history.

Except for one thing.  Dave can’t figure out how to fit the cover on the trash can over the liner.

And I’m not helping. 

It's Not My Fault!

Brenda Sager's decision to wear her favorite pair of flip flops to Walmart that day, came back to haunt her.

She wanted to show off her new French pedicure.  To that end, Brenda proudly paraded her phalanges down Walmart's wide aisles, feeling quite attractive, from the knees down.

Just 30 minutes later, poor Brenda was innocently unpacking her groceries when the  29-ounce can of Del Monte sliced peaches in syrup unexpectedly tumbled from the bag.  


The can landed on the counter, picking up momentum as it rolled toward the sink.  It would have dropped safely into the sink, if not for the 12-pack of Bud her husband had inadvertently placed on the counter.
 
Instead, the can of peaches rebounded off the beer and toppled to the floor.  Much to the chagrin of Brenda's unsuspecting French pedicure.

It happened so quickly.  Ronald tried to warn Brenda.  As he said "Look" the can landed on Brenda's left foot, cracking and damaging her previously perfect toes.

"Out," Ronald finished his futile warning.  But it was too late. 

"Son of a $#@^^*!!"  Brenda screamed.  "That @$@%# &%#$# filled the @#$%#+ bag too &#@*!  I'm gonna sue Walmart's ass for $30,000."

And she did.

Poor Brenda.  Her French pedicure was ruined and it was all Walmart's fault.

I completely empathize, for I too, have been victimized.  Not by Walmart.  I have been victimized by the Biltmore House. 

You see, my jaw hurts.  It hurts bad.  Really bad.  And it's all the Biltmore's fault.  

They sold me a stale box of Jelly Belly's.  Which I had to eat.  By the handful.  All at once.



Eating that box of Jelly Belly's was damn hard work, and my jaw has been aching ever since.  In fact, I was not able to eat another jelly bean for 6 entire days.

I know that the Biltmore House has deep pockets. The stinkin' house has 250 rooms.  And a winery.   

In fact, I think those Biltmore's have more money than the Kardashians.
 
I just I have to find myself a good ambulance-chasing attorney.  One who can humanize my pain and suffering when addressing a jury, and communicate the practical and emotional effects of not being able to eat jelly beans for nearly a week.

With that said, I think my pain and suffering could be mitigated by a couple cases of that Biltmore wine.