Tuesday, July 26, 2005
I could have been a plumber
The wife said, "Devas, you can do it." I thought, probably not. "You replaced the faucet the last time it broke," she said, attempting to remind me. But what she didn't know was the last time it broke, I merely snapped the cheap plastic parts back together, and returned the newly bought faucet to Home Depot. This undertaking was going to be big, way over my head. "We'd better call in the professionals," I said, not wanting to be bothered with any faucets, pipes, or anything under the sink. "You can do it, my 'Wonderboy'," she said, pinching my backside. Ooh, just the thing to reactivate a brotha's innate plumbing instincts.
Without further ado, I went to work, emphatically, like a zulu ambush on a pygmie settlement, unless, that is, zulus love pygmies, and in that case, my metaphor is ruined. I stooped down to the floor and after compromising my spinal alignment, balled myself up and climbed in. First things first, looking around I analyzed my surroundings. No spiders.
The deed actually turned out to be rather simple. I turned off the spigot, finagled a clip-on lamp to just the right spot as not to electrocute myself in a puddle of lightening-laced water. My fingers intertwined themselves between plastic pipes, and rusted nuts. Water dripped occasionally, sullying my eyes and several times I jammed my head into the garbage disposal unit. Ouch!
But alas, the deed was finally done in just over an hour. I ran upstairs to collect my reward, not forgetting that little backside pinch. She was sleep. I read.
Mom (Mz. Gig) You would'a been proud.
Hot feet in Austin
Just on a fluke, I decided to leave my big and index toes in charge of keeping my footwear attached to my feet. They held on for dear life to a plastic strap carefully threaded between the four of them. They struggled to hold on as each flap-flap-flap of these floppy shoes slapped the back of my heels in these not-so-comfortable summertime shoes they call flip-flops or thongs. I'll never do this again, never! And I can't even imagine the kind that one wears on their butt.
Just plain hot
The only thing worse than driving a truck, engine profusly smoking from a broken air conditioner, and low oil, on a triple-digit hot day in an Austin traffic jam, is driving that truck with my son, singing a song, and asking questions back to back. "Dad, are we at swimming yet? Dad, are we at swimming, yet? Dad, are we at swimming, yet?"