All Screwed Up

My quarantine is over. I am no longer contagious (see blog post below).  I lectured for three hours this morning. I never thought I’d last that long, but once I’m in the first century of Christianity I cannot be stopped, not even by myself.

 

I found it hilarious (and very touching too) that in separate phone calls yesterday both my best friend and my son found it necessary to provide me with instructions on how to be sick. They know that I don’t know how; to rest, to be still, to be sick. My son said that when he read my email about the strep he thought to himself, “Oh wow. This is serious. She doesn’t know how to do this.” His instructions were to take out three or four CDs that haven’t received a close listen and to lie down and just listen. My best friend recommended that I take out a novel (“do you have any novels?”—as opposed to all those head books I usually read) lie down and read, presumably until I fall asleep. She also reminded me about five times that I am sick (to help me understand that it was a reality I should not try to ignore). I rummaged in a box in an upstairs closet and actually found a novel! I didn’t exactly strictly follow their advice, but I did for some of the day. I made a popsicle run to the store too.

 

I continued to paint my little iron table, which wasn’t really work at all. It was a relaxing joy. And then, as I sat outside on my newly decorated patio/courtyard/corralled enclosure thing I noticed that indeed there is another board on which I could have hung my flower pot because the gate swings outward! I couldn’t wait. I unscrewed the screws and started to screw the hanger into  the newly  chosen board. That was my mistake. As I began to screw the screws into the new board the threads of the Philips heads began to wear, disintegrate, down to nothing. The screws stopped screwing.

 

Sometimes, in this blog, I write about big things and sometimes, little things. This blog post is about a little thing and it includes an admission or a confession; that for most of my adult life I have been screwdriver challenged.

 

I am not entirely incompetent around the house. In Rhode Island my ex-husband and I owned an eight-room, two-story house,  with attic and basement. One summer, he and I stripped and re-painted the entire exterior of that huge house by ourselves (the children helped a little, but they were little, so…). One day as I was precariously perched on the peak of the second-story, front porch roof, attempting to scrape the paint off the attic eave my neighbor across the street shouted, “Louise that looks a little dangerous up there.” I said, “Well, Mr. Lanoie, if anything happens just be ready to call 911.” Mr. Lanoie was retired. He wasn’t a nosy neighbor at all, but if he sat on his front porch, how could he avoid seeing me up there? Besides, he let us borrow his ladders, so as far as I was concerned he could watch all he liked. He had some kick-ass ladders that man. Another summer my daughter and I decided that she had outgrown her “baby” wallpaper. We chose paint this time with a Toile wallpaper border. I started to scrape the old wallpaper off. I wanted to get the wall down to the stucco. I discovered to my horror that under our layer of wallpaper, which we had put up over the painted wall when we moved in, was the layer of paint over another layer of wallpaper. I went to the hardware store, rented a steamer and for one, long, hot July I worked in that room with steam until the walls were down to their pristine bareness. Then  I painted and applied the wallpaper border. I swear, that summer there were suspicions that the owner of the hardware store and I were having an affair. I painted a huge living room and dining room with ten foot ceilings (all the time avoiding getting paint on the crown moldings) with a paintbrush, not a roller. My brother-in-law, who was a carpenter, remarked as he inspected the walls that he couldn’t even find a brush stroke. I’ve fixed the guts inside toilet tanks, spackled holes in the wall, cut and hung wallpaper, pulled up carpeting. (I know. It’s hard to believe. I’m such a delicate flower).

 

In Rhode Island I had an electric screwdriver. I cannot tell you the gift this was. I could actually screw in a screw without breaking something (in the house or in me) or letting out a string of profanities worthy of the sailors in Newport. But I don’t have one here. So, after school today I went to the hardware store (with my screw in my little hand) and said to the cute boy, “I want one this size but I don’t want a Philips.” He said, “YOU DON’T WANT A PHILIPS?” He asked this question with the same incredulity one might expect if I had just said, “I don’t want to go to heaven.”

“YOU DON’T WANT TO GO TO HEAVEN?”

I said, “No. I don’t want a Philips head.”

He said, “Well, most companies don’t make the straight heads anymore.”

(Oh for Pete’s sake).

“The threads on these Philips screws are all worn down and they’re brand new.”

“Did you get them here?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s your problem then. Hehehehe.”

(Yah. That’s funny, Pal).

“Oh all right. But maybe I should get a new screwdriver too. From here. The one I have only cost a dollar.”

(More laughter from the cute boy).

 

So, two new screws in hand, I arrived proudly at my home.

I mounted the plant hanger up against the board and started driving the screw. (Oh pleeease don’t tell my son or my best friend. I’m supposed to be reading, or listening to music). About halfway in, it stopped dead. “Ok, just leave that one hanging there for a while and try the other one.” Now, I know the trick of hitting a nail into the intended hole to make way for the screw, but I didn’t HAVE a nail. But then I saw one sticking slightly out of the fence, so I pulled it out. I used it to make my entry hole but I’d driven that sucker so deeply into the wood I could not get it back out! So I pulled and pulled and finally the whole board started coming with it. Whoooooooooooaaa! I positioned the pronged end of my hammer in the opposite direction and pulled with all my might until it finally gave. I stuck the screw in and twisted the driver. The result is that now, my pot hanger is listlessly swaying back and forth on the screws, which are each about a quarter of an inch from being firmly embedded. So every hour or so this afternoon I have gone out there with the screwdriver and tried again—to move the bloody screws a millimeter at a time. The last time I went out, I came inside and noticed a huge blister sitting right in the middle of my right hand. There  will be no more screwing today.

I cannot express my frustration. Why does driving a screw have to be so hard?

All I want to do is hang a flowerpot. (pouting).

 

Now some of you might think that all of this is funny and maybe someday I will too, but this is what is really funny…

 

The little iron table-- I didn’t just paint it one solid color. I painted it in green and pale yellow stripes and then on top of the stripes I painted huge, brilliantly colored flowers and vines. Then I sprayed the protective acrylic coating on it (outside, well ventilated) where it now sits. This afternoon as I sat near my new table, I noticed that little flying insects began to visit it. Evidently the flowers look so real that real insects are alighting! And this of course is a table on which I plan to EAT. I guess I’ll have to go back to see cute hardware store boy and purchase a Citronella candle…