Trapped (part 2); Notorious Cheapskate
Continued from Trapped (Part1):
I'm a notorious cheapskate. Notorious. I can't pay to park in the city. I can't stand the idea of eating out if there's a can of anything in the cabinet. And I, most certainly, MOST CERTAINLY, won't wallet dive for a fix-it around the house.
My dark cloud has set over the garage, and I, alone, will fix it. What's to it? 4 bolts and their corresponding nuts. Turn. Tighten. Lickity-splits. I'm nuts if I'm calling The Garage Barrage, Inc. to come and track-n-roll the door for me. The Garage Barrage can eat me and their $85.00 an hour labor charge sprinkled with a little bit of their 2 hour minimum.
So, there I hulked in front of the garage door, ready for battle. Yeah, I had fixed some shit around the casa before, but let's be honest, this was a garage door with tracks and rollers and shit. This was true fix-'em conflict.
“Honey, I’m fixing the garage. So, please, let me work for about 15 minutes before attempting to bother me!”
15 minutes. A big fat goddamn to 15 minutes. Fucking please. Nothing I touch takes 15 minutes. I’m still missing drywall screws in the bathroom wall I’ve been working on since May 2004. We have to shower twice everyday. Once to organically de-stank and once to wash the drywall dust from our shoulders from the exposed greenboard in the tub.
"Hey, do you have your cell phone?" Wifey chimes.
“My cell phone?”
“In the event you get stuck in the garage.”
“Get stuck?!? I’m fixing it!”
“Take your cell phone, please.”
I wasn't taking my cell phone on a home repair. I downloaded the fix-its off the Web. And the Web is never wrong. WIKIPEDIA IS THE NEW CHRIST!!! RISEN!!! PRAISE BE MOSTLY TRUE INFORMATION ABOUT EVERYTHING!!! PRAISE BE HE!!!
I tried to raise the door manually. It was stuck. Jammed. I crowbarred it with a make shift see-saw of pressure treated decking boards and an empty Mountain Fresh Tide with Bleach jug. As it opened, I caught a glance of Wifey one last time as she loaded herself into the Camry. Dammit.
"Your cell phone? Your daughter is in the house alone and if anything happens --"
I cut her off as I patted one of the 365 pockets of my Old Navy cargo shorts (that I'm wearing because I think they make me look cool... and, sadly, younger). BOTOX WITH POCKETS!!!
"Right here."
It wasn't right anywhere. Why would I need it? I was only going to be 15 minutes. What's going to happen in 15 minutes? Thomas the Train Engine and the gang from PBS Sprout will have Tiny busy for hours. HOURS!
HOURS - 15 MINUTES = PLENTY OF TIME TO FIX THE GHEE-RAHGE!!!
I belly-flopped to the driveway and US Army obstacle-coursed my way into the garage. I stood and dusted the cement shavings and termite wings from my Old Navy Cargo shorts. I surveyed the damaged:
The track hung from 1 bolt and was hanging like a monkey in the Springtime from the ceiling rafters. An enormous spring bounced from a hole in the track. A round thing lied on the floor under it -- Yeah... round thing... Once the word "thing" pops into my head, it's all clear....
"I have no fucking business fixing this door."
But I had to save face. I surveyed the connections and made the best guesstimate that I would need -- bigger bolts. Yeah. Bigger bolts. I wrote it on a scrap piece of 2X4, too, so I wouldn't forget:
4 Bigger bolts and corresponding nuts.
I dragged gut out of the garage as I yelled, "Come on, babe!"
"What, Daddy?"
"Put on your shoes - We're going to Home Depot!" with all the enthusiasm of some asshole sitcom Dad announcing an RV vesseled vacation.
"Yay!"
A 4 year old little girl screaming "Yay" for a trip to Home Depot. It wasn't the trip. It's all in how you sell it, baby. SELL IT!!!
I turned to close the garage door, but brain-snapped to an “ah-ha”.
"I'm better than closing this garage. Once that door’s shut it ain’t going to open and then I’ll be eating into my 15 minutes. It’ll be fine. No one’s crawling in there and throwing grand larceny on my B & D rotary saw. LET'S HIT IT, BABE!!!”
Within 20 minutes we were out, Depot'd and back. AND back with only what I went in for: 4 bigger bolts and their corresponding nuts.
"All right, Tiny, in the house.”
"Why?"
"Daddy's going to fix the garage."
"Mommy said to bring your cell phone in case you get stuck."
My wife using my daughter as a life-sized Post-it note. What the fuck is going on here? Sneaky.
“Yeah. Yeah. I got my cell phone.”
“Let me see it.”
“You don’t need to see it. Get in the house.”
“Mommy said I had to see it if you went into the garage. ‘Case you get stuck in there.”
“I’m not ‘casing getting stuck anywhere.”
“You might.”
“I won’t.”
“You might.”
“Daddy's not getting stuck in the garage. I’m fixing the garage and if the garage door gets closed, I’ll just open the door because, then, it will be fixed.”
“Mommy said you’ll get stuck in there because it will just stay broke like the drawer in the kitchen.”
“Yeah, well, Mommy’s the one who broke the drawer by putting too many spatulas in it.”
This garage has sunk me so low... and, more importantly, why in Cinxia's good name did we get that many spatulas for our wedding?
“I need to see the phone, Daddy?”
“What?!?”
"Mommy said."
"Mommy said...."
I searched through 12 of the 364 pockets of my Old Navy Cargo shorts and drew out the phone. But let's cut this up now: These fucking shorts don't make me look younger. It's all the goddamn exercise I'm getting looking for shit that I put in pockets I forgot about.
“See. I have it. I have the phone… you snitch,” then I mumble, “Post-it Note.”
“That’s a bad word!”
“I said: Post-it Note!”
This is why most parents ignore their kids. It’s the brakes they put on: Lack of Influence. My problem is, I’m too involved. I’ve created a tiny version of myself. And, let’s be honest. I don’t want to argue with myself. I’m a fucking asshole. And now I’m arguing with a miniature fucking asshole who hasn’t learned the concept of argument consequence yet. So, she’s actually better than me.
“Please, go in and watch TV while I fix the garage.”
“Mommy says you might get stuck in there –“
“ALL RIGHT! Enough of what Mommy says!"
We stared at each other for 6 and quarter minutes.
“You’re a yeller.”
And in the house she went.
The sun went down and its wake of darkness tsunami'd over the garage. The only thing blacker than the shadowed driveway was the opening at the bottom of the garage door.
“Dammit. I hope nothing crawled in there while I was at the Depot.”
I chewed a bit at the inside of my cheek.
“Something fucking crawled in there.”
I tried to look through the window on the garage door, but the glass floating in the frames were yellowed-and-frosted more than the hair of a suburban woman trying to cover up a hefty dose of low self-esteem and a bad marriage. I couldn’t see shit.
“Mother-of-rancid-ass. Something goddamn crawled in there. Something motherfucking crawled into this goddamn garage.”
My stomach started to gurgle. My hands started to shake. I didn't want to go in there. It was dark and, more often than not, I’m partially the pussy side of things. The problem was: I was already 45 minutes into my 15 minute job.
"Goddammit, I’m going in."
I slung my gut down onto the driveway, once again, and began scraping my way in under the door by the tips of my fingers.
In my head I heard the Post-it Note, “Mommy said to take your cell phone.”
She was right. Dammit and all Hefty Hell, Wifey was right again. I slid my hand into pocket # 216 of my Old Navy cargo shorts, pulled out my cell phone. I smiled at the stupid cell phone, gave the finger to the shorts, all their fucking pockets and anti-aging abilities, then struggled to re-find pocket # 216 of my Old Navy Cargo shorts to put the phone back.
“Come on!"
I jammed the phone down. Hard. Not into pocket 216, but into the cuff of the shorts leg. Except the cuff isn’t a pocket and it’s nowhere as deep as a pocket. So, as I scraped my way into the garage, the cell phone, like a destined solider, was left behind…
… except I didn't know it and now I was in a pitch black garage.
Alone.
I hoped.
To Be Continued... again...
I'm a notorious cheapskate. Notorious. I can't pay to park in the city. I can't stand the idea of eating out if there's a can of anything in the cabinet. And I, most certainly, MOST CERTAINLY, won't wallet dive for a fix-it around the house.
My dark cloud has set over the garage, and I, alone, will fix it. What's to it? 4 bolts and their corresponding nuts. Turn. Tighten. Lickity-splits. I'm nuts if I'm calling The Garage Barrage, Inc. to come and track-n-roll the door for me. The Garage Barrage can eat me and their $85.00 an hour labor charge sprinkled with a little bit of their 2 hour minimum.
So, there I hulked in front of the garage door, ready for battle. Yeah, I had fixed some shit around the casa before, but let's be honest, this was a garage door with tracks and rollers and shit. This was true fix-'em conflict.
“Honey, I’m fixing the garage. So, please, let me work for about 15 minutes before attempting to bother me!”
15 minutes. A big fat goddamn to 15 minutes. Fucking please. Nothing I touch takes 15 minutes. I’m still missing drywall screws in the bathroom wall I’ve been working on since May 2004. We have to shower twice everyday. Once to organically de-stank and once to wash the drywall dust from our shoulders from the exposed greenboard in the tub.
"Hey, do you have your cell phone?" Wifey chimes.
“My cell phone?”
“In the event you get stuck in the garage.”
“Get stuck?!? I’m fixing it!”
“Take your cell phone, please.”
I wasn't taking my cell phone on a home repair. I downloaded the fix-its off the Web. And the Web is never wrong. WIKIPEDIA IS THE NEW CHRIST!!! RISEN!!! PRAISE BE MOSTLY TRUE INFORMATION ABOUT EVERYTHING!!! PRAISE BE HE!!!
I tried to raise the door manually. It was stuck. Jammed. I crowbarred it with a make shift see-saw of pressure treated decking boards and an empty Mountain Fresh Tide with Bleach jug. As it opened, I caught a glance of Wifey one last time as she loaded herself into the Camry. Dammit.
"Your cell phone? Your daughter is in the house alone and if anything happens --"
I cut her off as I patted one of the 365 pockets of my Old Navy cargo shorts (that I'm wearing because I think they make me look cool... and, sadly, younger). BOTOX WITH POCKETS!!!
"Right here."
It wasn't right anywhere. Why would I need it? I was only going to be 15 minutes. What's going to happen in 15 minutes? Thomas the Train Engine and the gang from PBS Sprout will have Tiny busy for hours. HOURS!
HOURS - 15 MINUTES = PLENTY OF TIME TO FIX THE GHEE-RAHGE!!!
I belly-flopped to the driveway and US Army obstacle-coursed my way into the garage. I stood and dusted the cement shavings and termite wings from my Old Navy Cargo shorts. I surveyed the damaged:
The track hung from 1 bolt and was hanging like a monkey in the Springtime from the ceiling rafters. An enormous spring bounced from a hole in the track. A round thing lied on the floor under it -- Yeah... round thing... Once the word "thing" pops into my head, it's all clear....
"I have no fucking business fixing this door."
But I had to save face. I surveyed the connections and made the best guesstimate that I would need -- bigger bolts. Yeah. Bigger bolts. I wrote it on a scrap piece of 2X4, too, so I wouldn't forget:
4 Bigger bolts and corresponding nuts.
I dragged gut out of the garage as I yelled, "Come on, babe!"
"What, Daddy?"
"Put on your shoes - We're going to Home Depot!" with all the enthusiasm of some asshole sitcom Dad announcing an RV vesseled vacation.
"Yay!"
A 4 year old little girl screaming "Yay" for a trip to Home Depot. It wasn't the trip. It's all in how you sell it, baby. SELL IT!!!
I turned to close the garage door, but brain-snapped to an “ah-ha”.
"I'm better than closing this garage. Once that door’s shut it ain’t going to open and then I’ll be eating into my 15 minutes. It’ll be fine. No one’s crawling in there and throwing grand larceny on my B & D rotary saw. LET'S HIT IT, BABE!!!”
Within 20 minutes we were out, Depot'd and back. AND back with only what I went in for: 4 bigger bolts and their corresponding nuts.
"All right, Tiny, in the house.”
"Why?"
"Daddy's going to fix the garage."
"Mommy said to bring your cell phone in case you get stuck."
My wife using my daughter as a life-sized Post-it note. What the fuck is going on here? Sneaky.
“Yeah. Yeah. I got my cell phone.”
“Let me see it.”
“You don’t need to see it. Get in the house.”
“Mommy said I had to see it if you went into the garage. ‘Case you get stuck in there.”
“I’m not ‘casing getting stuck anywhere.”
“You might.”
“I won’t.”
“You might.”
“Daddy's not getting stuck in the garage. I’m fixing the garage and if the garage door gets closed, I’ll just open the door because, then, it will be fixed.”
“Mommy said you’ll get stuck in there because it will just stay broke like the drawer in the kitchen.”
“Yeah, well, Mommy’s the one who broke the drawer by putting too many spatulas in it.”
This garage has sunk me so low... and, more importantly, why in Cinxia's good name did we get that many spatulas for our wedding?
“I need to see the phone, Daddy?”
“What?!?”
"Mommy said."
"Mommy said...."
I searched through 12 of the 364 pockets of my Old Navy Cargo shorts and drew out the phone. But let's cut this up now: These fucking shorts don't make me look younger. It's all the goddamn exercise I'm getting looking for shit that I put in pockets I forgot about.
“See. I have it. I have the phone… you snitch,” then I mumble, “Post-it Note.”
“That’s a bad word!”
“I said: Post-it Note!”
This is why most parents ignore their kids. It’s the brakes they put on: Lack of Influence. My problem is, I’m too involved. I’ve created a tiny version of myself. And, let’s be honest. I don’t want to argue with myself. I’m a fucking asshole. And now I’m arguing with a miniature fucking asshole who hasn’t learned the concept of argument consequence yet. So, she’s actually better than me.
“Please, go in and watch TV while I fix the garage.”
“Mommy says you might get stuck in there –“
“ALL RIGHT! Enough of what Mommy says!"
We stared at each other for 6 and quarter minutes.
“You’re a yeller.”
And in the house she went.
The sun went down and its wake of darkness tsunami'd over the garage. The only thing blacker than the shadowed driveway was the opening at the bottom of the garage door.
“Dammit. I hope nothing crawled in there while I was at the Depot.”
I chewed a bit at the inside of my cheek.
“Something fucking crawled in there.”
I tried to look through the window on the garage door, but the glass floating in the frames were yellowed-and-frosted more than the hair of a suburban woman trying to cover up a hefty dose of low self-esteem and a bad marriage. I couldn’t see shit.
“Mother-of-rancid-ass. Something goddamn crawled in there. Something motherfucking crawled into this goddamn garage.”
My stomach started to gurgle. My hands started to shake. I didn't want to go in there. It was dark and, more often than not, I’m partially the pussy side of things. The problem was: I was already 45 minutes into my 15 minute job.
"Goddammit, I’m going in."
I slung my gut down onto the driveway, once again, and began scraping my way in under the door by the tips of my fingers.
In my head I heard the Post-it Note, “Mommy said to take your cell phone.”
She was right. Dammit and all Hefty Hell, Wifey was right again. I slid my hand into pocket # 216 of my Old Navy cargo shorts, pulled out my cell phone. I smiled at the stupid cell phone, gave the finger to the shorts, all their fucking pockets and anti-aging abilities, then struggled to re-find pocket # 216 of my Old Navy Cargo shorts to put the phone back.
“Come on!"
I jammed the phone down. Hard. Not into pocket 216, but into the cuff of the shorts leg. Except the cuff isn’t a pocket and it’s nowhere as deep as a pocket. So, as I scraped my way into the garage, the cell phone, like a destined solider, was left behind…
… except I didn't know it and now I was in a pitch black garage.
Alone.
I hoped.
To Be Continued... again...
posted by Oh My Lot! at 3:42 PM
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