Take That, Car!!!
I feel safe enough in my manliness to relate this story about one of my greatest failings as a guy:
They say genetic traits sometimes skip a generation. In my case, it seems to take four generations for things to change.
Tracing my lineage on my father's side back, a great grandfather was a machinist. My grandfather was a truck-driving mechanic. My father was a mechanic. These were men who could fix things.
Somewhere along the way, there was a radical gene mutation. I have no mechanical aptitude.
The first time I changed my brake pads back in high school, I took my brakes totally apart. Everything that made my car stop--I removed and laid out in order on the driveway in an attempt to remember how it all went back together. When I took the car for a test drive and tried stopping in the driveway and nothing happened, I remembered, "Oh yeah--isn't there something about bleeding the brakes." I eventually figured it all out and was able to stop on a dime.
When I proudly told a friend about what I'd done, he said, "You do know you can slide brake pads in and out without doing all that, right?"
During my freshman year in high school, because I got bad grades, they tracked me as a shop freak. Even though I wanted to take biology and other science classes, I was forced into metal shop and small engine repair. While I liked forging steel, I was a horrible welder. And when the final pull on my Briggs and Stratton lawnmower engine created a lot of noise and even more smoke, I was almost glad we moved to Texas where my school didn't have an advanced shop curriculum.
Simply put--I'm not cut out to carry on the family tradition of fixing things.
* * *
In the novel I'm working on, one of the main characters has issues with home repair. It makes a better story to make the guy fumble around to the point of almost ridiculous, and sometimes I worry I'm going overboard with his ineptitude. That is, until I decided to change the headlight in my car today.
In my defense, my giant giant monkey hands are not made for fine motor skills. There was a reason Victorian factories craved the tiny hands of children for detailed work. I even remember a day when I had no problems changing a headlight. I removed a few screws, popped a new headlamp in, put the screws back and viola! Even I could do it.
But not anymore.
I went down to the parking lot ready for an easy change. In theory, all I needed to do was unscrew a cover, pop a little metal retaining thingy from the back of the bulb, slide the bulb out of its housing, and remove it from the socket. Repeating this process in reverse is all it would take to change the bulb completely.
The owner's manual doesn't tell you that you have to work in a space the size of a small coffee mug! I suppose I could have removed the battery, giving me more room, but I wanted to get back to writing.
I removed the cover over the light housing and thought, "No problem!" But the retaining pin over the back of the light required a screwdriver. So upstairs I went, got a screwdriver, and I was able to use it to get in to the small spaces my fingers wouldn't go to release the retainer. Everything was going smoothly until it came to getting the new light back into the housing and the retainer over the back of the socket.
I needed a flashlight. Back upstairs I went, grabbing everything else I thought I'd need.
I should mention here that the wind is blowing around 45 - 50 mph today. Shingles are sailing from rooftops and it sounds like any moment we will be blown from the floor below and into the parking lot. As I was walking downstairs, I got hit by a gust of wind, looked back, and stepped on my shoelace.
The Sinister Culprit
Stepping on your shoelace is not a great thing to do while walking downstairs and looking behind you. Down I went!
I haven't fallen down stairs since I was a kid, and I wasn't about to now. I may suck at fixing cars, but years of juggling have honed my reflexes. I stopped myself with a knee.
Of course, that knee doesn't feel too hot now.
Back to the headlight and...cling-clang!
Hearing metal falling into nooks and crannies while working on a car is never a good thing. I thought the retaining pin fell, but nope--it was still there. I didn't remove any bolts that could have fallen anywhere, so what was the sound?
"Oh, hey--there's my wedding ring, balanced on the edge of something stable and about ready to fall into the great beyond." Reflexes took over, though, and the ring was grabbed before another blast of wind came along, knocking it into the inner workings of my car's engine.
Sometimes when working on things and having a tough time, it helps to look at problems from different angles. So I stepped to the other side of the car.
"OWW!!! What the hell was that?!" My ankle hurt. Your ankle would hurt, too, if a shingle blew from the top of a second floor apartment and was hurled at you by a 40 mph wind!
The Offending Shingle
I did inherit one thing from my father when it comes to fixing cars--when things get bad enough to piss you off, growl! A lot.
I growled, letting my car know it would not get the best of me, and I got the headlight into its housing. The retaining pin, on the other hand, refused to be my friend so the temporary fix was putting the housing cover back on so the headlight won't bounce totally free, and sometime tomorrow I'll remove the battery and actually give my giant primate hands the chance to fix things right.
The headlight will do its job tonight, at least--anybody going to youngraven's party tonight...if you see a car coming your way with a shakey driver's side headlight, it's only me...
* * *
Now that the headlight is fixed for today, it's time to write for awhile.
I will no longer feel like I'm treating the main character like a bumbling goofball when it comes to fixing things; in fact, I feel a lot of sympathy for the poor guy now...
They say genetic traits sometimes skip a generation. In my case, it seems to take four generations for things to change.
Tracing my lineage on my father's side back, a great grandfather was a machinist. My grandfather was a truck-driving mechanic. My father was a mechanic. These were men who could fix things.
Somewhere along the way, there was a radical gene mutation. I have no mechanical aptitude.
The first time I changed my brake pads back in high school, I took my brakes totally apart. Everything that made my car stop--I removed and laid out in order on the driveway in an attempt to remember how it all went back together. When I took the car for a test drive and tried stopping in the driveway and nothing happened, I remembered, "Oh yeah--isn't there something about bleeding the brakes." I eventually figured it all out and was able to stop on a dime.
When I proudly told a friend about what I'd done, he said, "You do know you can slide brake pads in and out without doing all that, right?"
During my freshman year in high school, because I got bad grades, they tracked me as a shop freak. Even though I wanted to take biology and other science classes, I was forced into metal shop and small engine repair. While I liked forging steel, I was a horrible welder. And when the final pull on my Briggs and Stratton lawnmower engine created a lot of noise and even more smoke, I was almost glad we moved to Texas where my school didn't have an advanced shop curriculum.
Simply put--I'm not cut out to carry on the family tradition of fixing things.
* * *
In the novel I'm working on, one of the main characters has issues with home repair. It makes a better story to make the guy fumble around to the point of almost ridiculous, and sometimes I worry I'm going overboard with his ineptitude. That is, until I decided to change the headlight in my car today.
In my defense, my giant giant monkey hands are not made for fine motor skills. There was a reason Victorian factories craved the tiny hands of children for detailed work. I even remember a day when I had no problems changing a headlight. I removed a few screws, popped a new headlamp in, put the screws back and viola! Even I could do it.
But not anymore.
I went down to the parking lot ready for an easy change. In theory, all I needed to do was unscrew a cover, pop a little metal retaining thingy from the back of the bulb, slide the bulb out of its housing, and remove it from the socket. Repeating this process in reverse is all it would take to change the bulb completely.
The owner's manual doesn't tell you that you have to work in a space the size of a small coffee mug! I suppose I could have removed the battery, giving me more room, but I wanted to get back to writing.
I removed the cover over the light housing and thought, "No problem!" But the retaining pin over the back of the light required a screwdriver. So upstairs I went, got a screwdriver, and I was able to use it to get in to the small spaces my fingers wouldn't go to release the retainer. Everything was going smoothly until it came to getting the new light back into the housing and the retainer over the back of the socket.
I needed a flashlight. Back upstairs I went, grabbing everything else I thought I'd need.
I should mention here that the wind is blowing around 45 - 50 mph today. Shingles are sailing from rooftops and it sounds like any moment we will be blown from the floor below and into the parking lot. As I was walking downstairs, I got hit by a gust of wind, looked back, and stepped on my shoelace.
The Sinister Culprit
Stepping on your shoelace is not a great thing to do while walking downstairs and looking behind you. Down I went!
I haven't fallen down stairs since I was a kid, and I wasn't about to now. I may suck at fixing cars, but years of juggling have honed my reflexes. I stopped myself with a knee.
Of course, that knee doesn't feel too hot now.
Back to the headlight and...cling-clang!
Hearing metal falling into nooks and crannies while working on a car is never a good thing. I thought the retaining pin fell, but nope--it was still there. I didn't remove any bolts that could have fallen anywhere, so what was the sound?
"Oh, hey--there's my wedding ring, balanced on the edge of something stable and about ready to fall into the great beyond." Reflexes took over, though, and the ring was grabbed before another blast of wind came along, knocking it into the inner workings of my car's engine.
Sometimes when working on things and having a tough time, it helps to look at problems from different angles. So I stepped to the other side of the car.
"OWW!!! What the hell was that?!" My ankle hurt. Your ankle would hurt, too, if a shingle blew from the top of a second floor apartment and was hurled at you by a 40 mph wind!
The Offending Shingle
I did inherit one thing from my father when it comes to fixing cars--when things get bad enough to piss you off, growl! A lot.
I growled, letting my car know it would not get the best of me, and I got the headlight into its housing. The retaining pin, on the other hand, refused to be my friend so the temporary fix was putting the housing cover back on so the headlight won't bounce totally free, and sometime tomorrow I'll remove the battery and actually give my giant primate hands the chance to fix things right.
The headlight will do its job tonight, at least--anybody going to youngraven's party tonight...if you see a car coming your way with a shakey driver's side headlight, it's only me...
* * *
Now that the headlight is fixed for today, it's time to write for awhile.
I will no longer feel like I'm treating the main character like a bumbling goofball when it comes to fixing things; in fact, I feel a lot of sympathy for the poor guy now...