You Want Me to Fix WHAT?!

Once in a while it has to happen. That feeling comes over you, and for some reason, you begin to believe that you can fix all those broken things around the house. This happened to me last Wednesday.

It started innocently enough. My wife announced that the camera no longer flashed. I tried to point out that this was a positive development since there would no longer be those annoying red dots where the subject’s pupils were supposed to be. My ploy failed to deter my wife, however, who continued to insist that the camera should flash. I shuffled to the drawer where the camera is kept. My mind was racing. What if I can’t fix it? I’ll look like an idiot!

When I turned the camera on, it looked as if the camera repair gods were smiling on me. The little battery thing was blinking. You know how they put those little icons on everything these days so you don’t have to read? My razor-sharp, analytical mind immediately assessed the blinking icon, and determined that the battery was in its death throes. What a break! I’m going to fix this thing and my wife is going to think I’m terrific! My good fortune continued. I actually had new batteries! I installed the new batteries, and strolled back into the den and flashed the camera in my wife’s eyes to dramatically demonstrate that I had successfully completed my mission. To my dismay, she was not impressed.

At it is so often in life, my success was followed not by critical acclaim, but by another challenge even greater than the previous one. When my wife’s vision returned, she informed me that since I was so smart I should save her the trouble and expense of taking in the vacuum cleaner for repair.

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked, with my index finger placed thoughtfully on the side of my chin, and a cogitative frown on my face.

“When I turn it on, nothing happens,” she replied.

“Hum. I see. Could be a problem somewhere,” I said as if I had just solved the problem of perpetual motion.

“Fix it.” She said with a look that would stop an advancing glacier.

Again, Lady Luck was in my corner. When I removed the plug from the cord one of those little prongs came off in my hand.
“I bet that’s supposed to be attached,” I thought.
I connected the wire to the loose prong, reassembled the plug, and Behold! The vacuum cleaner worked! By now my wife was beginning to marvel at my unprecedented luck, and I was beginning to think I could disassemble a space shuttle and put it back together again.

Nothing gets you in trouble like a little success. I decided that since I was obviously on a roll, I should tackle the riding lawn mower. The oil had not been changed since the Carter administration, so I surmised that an oil change would be a good place to start.

After staring at the mower for a few minutes while eating a grape popsicle, (which usually works) I decided to locate the owner’s manual. After a frantic search lasting roughly half an hour, I was surprised to find that I had wisely filed it in the file cabinet under “owner’s manuals”. I turned to the chapter called “How to Change the Oil”. The first instruction was “remove the cutting deck (page 45)”. Page 45 began six pages of instructions on how to remove the 250-pound cutting deck. Step one was “start early in the day”. This is not encouraging, I thought.

Undaunted, and believing that I could do anything, I confidently began to follow the steps for removing the cutting deck, certain that someone would be around to help me lift the thing if I did actually get it off. Did you know there was such a thing as metric bolts? I didn’t either. Not to be outdone, I drove to Lowe’s and bought a cheap 40-piece metric rachet set, which I sat on the mower seat. Which I promptly raised to get a better look at the insides of the mower. Do you know how long it takes to pick up forty metric sockets out of the grass and place them in order in a rachet set case? About fifteen minutes.

After stripping the first three metric bolts with my brand new 40-piece metric rachet set, I decided that there must be a better way to change the oil without removing the cutting deck. After staring alternately at the mower and the drawing in the Owner’s Manual demonstrating the location of the oil drain for about ten minutes (approximately one more grape popsicle) I decided to call the store which sold me the mower and ask them which bolt opened the oil drain. Their description was no more helpful than the Owner’s Manual. Not to be outdone, (I can fix anything now, remember?) I drove over to the store to have the man show me the oil drain. It was mildly encouraging to note that he didn’t seem to know where it was either. After a while, we located the bolt that he thought drained the oil, and I returned home ready to show this mower who was in charge.

I place the 40-piece rachet set on the seat of the mower, which I then raised to get a better…..just kidding.

After a lengthly series of unnatural and moderately painful contortions through and around the 250-pound cutting deck, I managed to get one of my sockets over the drain bolt. Giving it a few twists, I was soon rewarded with a trickle of oil down my arm. Then it occurred to me. Maybe I should catch this in something. Especially since I am in the carport. Do you know how many Parkay butter dishes you can fill with the oil from a riding lawn mower? About seven. Do you know where you are supposed to put the oil once you catch it? Neither do I.

I trudged back into the house looking much like Ashley Wilkes dragging himself up the road to Twelve Oaks after the war. I was battered, yet I survived. It was then that my wife notified me that there was a squeak in the bedroom floor.

“Fix it!” I said, with a look that could stop an advancing glacier.


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