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.

Coexisting

Here's the deal with retirement.  I'm around Dave.  A lot.

Truth be told, that is the one thing I was a wee bit worried about.

Yes, we've been married for um... let's see... 2017-1985=32 years.

OMG!  That's almost 1/3 of a century!

But I've never been around him so many hours at at time. 

The first few weeks of retirement went fine.  We coexisted quite well.

That is, until 4:36 PM on Monday, November 6, 2017.

I decided to work on a jigsaw puzzle.  And I turned on the Hamilton soundtrack.  Because I LOVE THAT MUSIC.

Dave was upstairs on the computer.

Admittedly, I had cranked up the volume.  And I was singing along.

"What is that????," my irritable, uncultured husband bellowed from upstairs.

"Hamilton," I declared.  Although, honestly....  Who does not recognize that amazing music?  

"That is horrendous.  It hurts my ears.  Turn it off, please."

Now.... you can insult my clothing.  And my haircut.  And certainly, my cooking.  But you have crossed the line when you insult Hamilton.

We engaged in a passionate argument about the merits of Hamilton vs. his taste in music.  Which is not good.


I even pulled my trump card.  

"When we were dating you told me you liked plays."  (I remind him of this ever few years when he complains about me dragging him to a play.)

After a few minutes I got tired of arguing so we made up.  I agreed that I would use head phones when I listen to Hamilton in the house.

But I've got news for him.  

I will certainly listen to Hamilton with my head phones on.  

But if he thought Hamilton was bad, wait until he hears me singing along.