2004-09-24 at 8:11 p.m.
Miss Fix-It
I'm not really a prissy sort of girl. I don't spend hours in the bathroom each day (usually only about ten minutes, fifteen on special occasions), I rarely wear high heels (and every time I do I really, really regret it by the end of the night. Why do sexy shoes always act like portable foot binding chambers?) and I've been known to belch and fart simultaneously. However, there is one aspect of femininity that runs strongly through my psyche, and that's the urge to get someone else to fix things when they break/get blocked/have some sort of insect sitting on them. However, I don't have a convenient male at my beck and call, and so must unplug hairy clogs and kill spiders myself.
I was supposed to teach a student this evening, but an hour had gone by and she still hadn't turned up. Assuming she just wasn't coming, I wandered into the front yard to bring in the garbage bin. As I was putting the bin next to the back door, I heard the *bleep*s and *bloop*s of my mobile phone ringing.
"I'm coming, I'm coming!" I yelled ineffectually, as I struggled with the stubborn back door. With a great wrench, I pulled it open, and sprinted for the phone. Behind me, something clattered to the floor. Uncaring, I raced into the living room, reaching the phone a split second after it stopped ringing. (After consulting Messagebank, it turned out to be my student, saying "Sorry, can't make it tonight". Thanks for that).
I returned to the back door to see what had fallen. It was the little thing that normally sits at the top of the door that causes the door to open and close.
"I can fix this, no problem" I thought. "It's just a few screws". I grabbed the most sophisticated tool I had in the house - a butterknife - and set to work.
As I worked, a neighbour's dog came out into the yard and barked at me. I'd like to think he was trying to be encouraging, but it's far more likely that he was just laughing at me.
I took about six different shots, and this was the best picture I could get of the dog. Clearly, when Kodak was designing this camera, they didn't take into account that my hands spasm like an epileptic child playing X-Box when I hold a camera. All the other shots came out like this -
Of course, my unsteady hands didn't make the repair job any easier. The bracket had come loose from the doorframe, and one of the metal rods had become bent. I went outside and pounded it on the concrete in an effort to straighten it, but all I did was put small, artistic pockmarks in the concrete.
By this point, I was saying all the words I'm no longer allowed to say, since I work with small children all day. "Damn Shit Fuck Ass Bloody Sick Of This Goddamn Shit!" I growled through gritted teeth, as a tiny screw *pinged* gently on the ground for the five thousanth time. And here's something I didn't know about screen doors - they get really, really dirty.
Here's what my hands looked like when I was finally done. (Well, my right hand, anyway. I had to wash my left hand so I could use the camera. You know, it's really quite difficult to wash just one hand without the other hand getting involved. Try it sometime).
Eventually, I'd managed to fix everything. Well, mostly. I was unable to put in the last screw with my butterknife, and gave up after repeated failed attempts. Here's what I'd had to contend with-
One day soon, the whole lot will come loose again and plummet to earth, most likely using my skull to break its fall. Damn treacherous door.
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