Saturday, November 15

All in a day's work

I just got home tonight from a lovely day out. I saw Love Actually, which was so wretchedly cute I teared up a few times while I wondered where my older prime-minister boyfriend was. I giggled and sighed, just like we good girls are supposed to do; I practically pulled a '50s and said, "He's so dreamy." Hormones. Don't bother to fight them. Then I had family dinner at my mom's new place, helped her build a few things, hang a few pictures, and lightened her fridge's load considerably.

So when I arrived home, I was a bit tired, but nothing outrageous. I planned to sit down and spend some serious time with my mom's copy of Blow Fly (borrowing: so much cheaper than buying yourself). I came home to an empty house -- not totally unusual as my roommate is known to take herself and her dog to the girlfriend's place from time to time -- but it was a dark and empty house. When I attempted to flip on the hall light I discovered why. I turned the kitchen light on instead, illuminating a note from beloved roomie explaining that she was unable to successfully remove the light cover to change the bulb. "Ha-ha!" I exclaimed. Clearly she was a wuss who gave up too easily and didn't know the trick about using those weird rubbery circle-things that help you open jars. I whip out the ladder, grab said weird rubbery thing, and go to work. The damn thing was screwed on pretty tight, I assure you, but known for my stubborn nature, I persevered. Once off, however, I discovered that both light bulbs -- due to age? cheap manufacture? -- had separated themselves from their sockets. I won't repeat here what was said, but I can tell you "fuck" was involved as well as some interesting British expressions that I suppose lingered in my mind from the movie.

I attempted the "potato" trick to get the sockets out. Unfortunately, all I'd heard of this trick was that a potato was involved. And I didn't have a potato. So I borrowed my roommate's sweet potato (because, let's face it, she got me into this mess to start with), and attempted to unscrew the sockets with that. All that netted me was sweet potato bits in the eyes. I climbed down the ladder (again) and pulled out my trusty red toolbox. Electrocution be damned, I was getting those f-ing things out and having light in my hallway again.

Pliers and pointy screwdriver in hand, I climbed back up the ladder. The first socket came out with a minimum of fuss -- I dented an edge in with my pointy screwdriver and grabbed it with my pliers, and twisted that punk-ass bitch right out of there. The other socket, however, would not go quietly. I dented and twisted, twisted and dented, all while bits of burnt-out I-don't-know-what fell on my face, down my shirt, and in my hair. I contemplated crying; I considered murder; I tried the damn sweet potato again. Now bits of pulpy yam was on my face as well as tiny bits of char and glass. Finally, I just jammed the pliers in the socket itself and turned, because death no longer seemed such a bad option. And it worked.

I said, "Let there be light," and goddamn if there wasn't light.

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