Incompetent Boobery

I have been thinking about my dad a lot lately. That makes it sound like he’s dead or something. He’s not. Anyway, I have been thinking about him. My mom says we are so much alike that it is a wonder we haven’t killed each other yet (of course, she’s also said that I am a lot like my closet-queen Uncle David. As yet, no one has made my much longed for comparison: Eartha Kitt). Allow me to spin you a story about a recent interaction with my dad. <>Slightly more than a week ago, in preparation for the last (?) hurricane to put its sights on my area only to turn aside in fickle disdain, my mom and dad purchased this “plymate” attachment system for those of us povs who ain’t rich enough to buy them fancy hurricane shutters. It’s actually kind of smart: you drill holes in the plywood slightly bigger than the screws, put the plywood up on the window, put wingnuts on the screws and voila! You are safe and protected. Then you simply twist the nuts off (ow!) when you need to take the plywood down. Works like a charm! Except, of course, when your father doesn’t listen to you and leaves out the hole drilling step and screws through the wood directly into the wall. Then, also of course, he miraculously decides that it was an important step when it comes time to put up the plywood on their house. No, I don’t see any bitterness here. Let me check in the back room.

The upshot was that I could not remove the plywood from my house with the ease of a 50’s era housewife, as subliminally advertised on the product. I needed instead a power drill and the bit used to put the screws into the wood in the first place. Since that resided at my parent’s house, I had to wait for it to be brought to me, along with assistance from my father (since I am apparently still not to be trusted with power tools). I communicated this to my mother on Thursday, while I vented a bit about my ingravescent case of rickets. My father was supposed to come up Sunday morning supplying said tools and assistance. He arrived… WITHOUT THE FUCKING DRILL OR THE BIT. I am okay. He expressed surprise at the fact that I required those items, to which I inquired if he had not conversed with mother regarding this topic, and whether he thought I was such a pussy I couldn’t have taken the fucking wood off the walls myself. I then explained my (futile) attempts to remove the screws with a ratchet. He expressed surety that he had drilled the holes, to which I could only point out the incontrovertible proof of the glaring lack of holes. He complained about having to make an hour round trip from my house to his and back. I then asserted that I would gladly drive to his house, mow his yard (I don’t know what possessed me), pick up the power drill, and remove the plywood myself. His response was to climb into his truck. I raced over, to inquire where the fuck he thought he was going and had he not heard what the fuck I said (sometimes you have to swear a lot to get through to him). He said he was going to Home Depot and returned anon with vice grips. After spending twenty minutes to remove seven screws, I told him that I could drive to his house and back and get done before he had one sheet off the walls. He acquiesced to my original plan and left.

I arrived back at my home at approximately 5:30 p.m. and promptly (after another application of Deep Woods OFF) began removing the plywood. I finished at about 7:15 p.m. after which I took a hot bath and imbibed an adequate amount of tequila so as to relieve the ache in my right arm. I went to bed, woke up, and attended what I hope to be the first week of work where I will not miss a day due to one circumstance or another. God speed.