The School for the Mechanically Declined

My windshield wiper blades had been a-flappin' in the wind, wild and free for weeks. I don't believe they even remembered what their purpose was, as it hasn't rained here for well over 300 days or something like that. They had deteriorated in the sweltering heat so much that they just cracked and peeled away from the wiper holder thingy all of their own accord and started dancing like one of those blow up attention getters at the side of the road that flops back and forth, forward and back in the wind. And they needed to be changed, because you never know when it might suddenly start raining torrentially around here.

I had to order my replacement blades off of the internet, as they were somehow too special for Wal-Mart and Quickie Lube. No problem. But when it actually came time to replace them, well that was another story. A rag, a screwdriver, a pair of scissors, a few choice vulgarities, and 45 minutes later, I had finally changed my simple little wiper blades. And my hands looked like this:

This served as an unnecessary reminder that I belong to The School of the Mechanically Declined:

See the guy in the red shirt? That's me. I'm just barely beginning to really grasp the concept of a screwdriver fitting into the head of a screw.

I've never been good at fixing things or putting things together. I don't look at engines, I don't kick tires, I don't take things apart to see how they work, much less reassemble them. Not even the simplest things. It makes me very cross. It frustrates me. I break out in a cold sweat and feel really mean and nervous all at once.

I grew up knowing that this was true, deep in the back of my head, but never wanting to fully admit it or even conciously think about it. It was shameful. It was not right. It was a crime against nature.

I never really had to deal with it until I was 21, when I married into a family of mechanics, putter-togetherers, and reassemblers. Reasonably, my wife expected her husband to be able to at least put together our daughter's trike, a simple particle board bookcase, check the oil in the car, jump start the car and even...fold up the stroller in order to put it in the trunk. Much to her dismay and frustration, she quickly discovered my mechanically declinedness. Much to my humiliation, I did, too.

At first there were many times when I would fumble around at the beginning of one of these dreadful tasks, as she watched, hopeful and expectant. But there was only so much the daughter of the owner of Indepedent Volkswagen could take. She would end up grabbing the task out of my hands, sighing and muttering, "Give me that. I'll just do it myself." And who could blame her?

I can't tell you how many cars I've purchased without even looking under the hood. A couple times I've been asked if I wanted to see, and I've just replied, "Naaaa. That's okay."

But I do feel that I am improving. The other day the garbage disposal and pipes leading up to it were clogged with potato peelings. And guess who took all the parts apart, cleared out the clog, and reassembled the plumbing all on his own, with hardly any nasty words? And it only took 2 hours.

In spite of that, I will always first try to tape something to fix it. I will try to force things into places that they shouldn't be forced. Push pins and staples will continue to be one of my best remedies. Kicking or smacking something to get it to work is another method I use. However, I have now embraced my inability to successfully put things together, while leaving myself open to learning new skills, like changing the toilet paper roll and replacing the vacuum bag.

Fortunately, Giancarlo is understanding and accommodating when it comes to my mechanical delinedness. He is happy to do the handyman type jobs as long as I clean the toilets and put dinner on the table.