Monday, December 8, 2014

A Tale of Two Screwdrivers

The other evening I had an Ordeal. Emphasis on the capital O.

It was a Thursday and I was in a rush trying to get ready between work and my husband's Christmas party. It's that harried process of transforming from a gremlin to Cinderella in under an hour.

As most women do, I have a very specific order of getting ready. Shower, half my make-up, hair, the rest of my make-up, get dressed. All without the help of musical mice. Darn the luck.

The first half of my make-up involves doing all of my eyes and then putting on my concealer like war paint. I leave it this way so it can dry a little while I'm doing my hair.

I was at this point in the process when I turned on my hair dryer, and all my lights when out.

Well. Crap.

I hobbled around in the dark, found a flashlight, and grabbed the first pair of shoes I stumbled across (they happened to be high heels). I teetered outside, checked the fuse box and was perplexed to find all the switches in the right place. That is the extent of my electrical knowledge.

A series of frustrating calls followed, one to my friend who is an electrician who helped me figure out that I had a bad breaker that needed replacing. Between his pep talk and the magic of Youtube I felt empowered to fix the problem myself.

At this point I had managed to find a pair of pajama pants, a neon yellow sports bra, and a sparkly tank top to complete my outfit of high heels and concealer warpaint (since I decided that attempting to do this outside at night in a towel was not my best plan).

I'm standing in the rocks, looking good, with a flashlight in my armpit and two screwdrivers in my hands and I successfully wiggle the old breaker out (the plan was to take it to Ace to get the right replacement).

"I got you, you wee little beastie! Success! Huh. How am I going to get my car out of the garage without the power on?"*

* I'm very external in my interactions with life. Exhibit A: The look my dog gave me as I was yelling at the TV (on an unrelated night)... this is what dog shaming actually looks like.

Anyway, there I stand wondering if I can turn my power back on without becoming an episode of CSI and decide to call my friend back instead of guessing.

I'm pivoting, arm pinned to side holding the flashlight, trying to juggle my screwdrivers, and I knock my phone to the ground (no pockets in my pajama pants so it was sitting on my meter).


I rearrange all my accessories and pick up my phone. I didn't just drop and crack it, as is prone to happen in the smart phone day and age, I apparently dropped it into Mount Doom inadvertently. The screen was splintered into roughly a bajillion pieces. The parts of the screen I could see were green and black and pulsing.


I now have no phone, no power, and no way to get my car out.

I admit defeat. I toddle to my neighbors house, crying because that's what I do, and ask to use her phone. I call my husband and he zips home to save me, Christmas party being one of the many casualties of the evening.

We go to Verizon, cry (me), get new phone, we go to ace, cry (still me), get a new breaker, and go home.

John looks at me and says he'll finish fixing the breaker.

Like hell. Move over buddy. This is my epic battle, I shall not be defeated.

We go back to the breaker, this time he holds the flashlight (that's a game changer), I wiggle it back in, connect all the dillywops, flip all the little a-hole switches, and step back.

Deep breath. Walk around the house.

Angels start singing, because I'll be darned, my bedroom light is on.

I fling my arms wide and crow (I get you Peter Pan, crowing is an appropriate expression of joy).

"I DID IT! LOOK!! I DID IT!! AAAHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOO!!!" Double fist pump. Happy butt wiggle. Eighties side jump.

John looks at me and says, "Very nice. I have to pee." Man of few words. I respect that, it takes a lot of patience to be married to me. It did not slow down my front yard victory boogying.


Forget being a counselor, I'm going to be an electrician.  

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