MR.FIX-IT

Actually, I’m not Mr.Fix-It. I would like to be. The cruel reality is that I can fix practically nothing.

Oh, I can do a couple of things I suppose. I can splice wire. I carefully separate the strands. I really don’t know why I do this but I do it anyway. Why is it, after being so careful, the darn thing the wire is attached to, invariably blows when I plug it in?

I can do other things equally as well. I change light fixtures. I get up there and look closely at those fierce looking wires protruding from the ceiling. I just know they are not to be trifled with. One false move and who knows what could happen. I’m no dummy, I wear insulated gloves. I know it’s a little difficult working up there with padded fingers, but I still remember the socket episode.

It’s a little embarrassing. Some might even go so far as to call it dumb. I thought it a good idea to see if the light was really on. Can’t be too careful you know. I remember taking off my glove and putting my finger in the socket. It was on.

I did lay floor tile once. Yes, I laid tile in our basement laundry room.
Each tile was 12 square inches. The room was four feet wide by five feet long I think. I studied this situation for some time. It was exhausting work. I stopped for a beer while watching one of my favorite T.V. programs. I decided I’d call it a day and retired for the night. The next day I began to lay down tile one after another. This is real easy I said to myself and went on merrily, singing in my deep bass voice until I realized that the tiles moved on their own. This required more study. It finally dawned on me that floor tiles need anchoring, some kind of glue to keep them in place. I spent seven days on that job and ended with just a small area uncovered. No sweat, I filled the gaps with wood fill. My wife never even thanked me.

Back in the good old days I remember buying a cordless T.V. remote control converter. I couldn’t wait to get home. Here was something right up my alley. No wires to connect, I was home free, I thought. I would just press the off-on switch to ‘on’ and presto. Three hours later, awash with perspiration, I was still manfully struggling to follow instructions seemingly written in a foreign language masquerading as English. I finally called a T.V. repairman. He did the job in fifteen seconds and could have done it sooner had he not been laughing so hard.

Sewing machines scare me. I see that needle going up and down at a hundred miles a minute and picture my fingers being sewn together. Girls of eight have no difficulty operating these beasts. I read parts of the manual that came with the unit: “Detach the presser foot, slide out the slide plate screw out of the stitch plate, tilt the machine head backwards and proceed to clean the oscillating hook and dog assemblies ….” I was lost. Who were they kidding? Only women and mechanics understood that jargon.

I envy the people who know what they are looking at when they lift the hood of their cars. I don’t. Plumbers, electricians and mechanics can tell me anything they want and I’ll believe them. “Five hundred and fifty-two dollars you say, right I say.” I may go pale. My knees might buckle a little, but I don’t hesitate. I whip out my checkbook and pay up.

I’m just not good with things. Take my bookcase for example. I first saw it assembled in the furniture store, all sixty inches of it. “I’ll take it as is,” I told the clerk. “That’s not possible,” he said. “It’s a floor model,” he said by explanation. “I don’t care if it’s a floor model, “ I stated firmly. I was adamant. He was more adamant than I was. I brought it home in three, unassembled boxes tied to the roof of my car. I had those shelves up in three hours flat. I’m no male chauvinist. I let my wife believe she showed me how to assemble the darn thing.

Did you ever look at the controls of a modern washing machine? Personally I believe one needs an engineering degree to operate one. My wife is not an engineer or a mechanic. Despite these shortcomings, she has no trouble with it. How does she do it?

I bought a tricycle for my grandson the other day. It came in ninety-two pieces of course. I offered the salesclerk ten percent above the selling price if I could take the finished product right off the floor, but he would not budge.

I laid all the pieces on the floor and sat down to have a beer while contemplating how I was going to attack the problem. While thus occupied, my daughters arrived. Not one to stymie creative growth, I let them have their fun. “No sweat”, they said in unison as they miraculously put it together.

By the way, does anyone out there know how to operate a ‘State of the art’ electric typewriter that does everything but walk? I just happen to have the instructions here beside me.