screwed

I arrived home from work the other day to find a project waiting for me. Now, to be honest, I'm not a huge fan of projects. Oh, it's not because I'm lazy or that I just want to sit around when I get home. No, it's actually because, when it comes to projects, I'm incompetent. Completely and utterly incompetent.

Oh, I can get them finished and usually produce decent results--but that's only after I've wasted an entire evening and have completely alienated myself from my family with lots of random yelling.

Anyway, I got home from work the other night and there, sitting on the counter, waiting for me--actually, mocking me from within its little plastic package--was a washing machine belt. You see, for a while now, our washing machine belt was getting ready to go. Oh, we knew it wasn't long for this world and today was finally the day it's time in our home came to an end.

Well, anyway, as I said, I'm not exactly Mr. Fix-it. Not even a little bit. But I was willing to give it a try. After all, it's just a belt. How hard could it be to put on?

So before I changed out of my work clothes, I marched downstairs with Andrew and Tessa--I figured I'd do a little bonding as I worked on the washer. Oh, we were all giggles and laughs as I removed the screws holding the front panel in place.

"Who's going to help daddy? Who's going to hold the screws?"

Tessa instantly raised her hand and hopped on her toes and said "me, me, me, me, me" and then she turned toward Andrew who was also reaching for them and she snarled and nearly bit his hand. Then she turned back to me and smiled and went back to saying "me, me, me, me" (though her eyes slanted "evilly" toward Andrew now and then).

Well, I gave her the screws and told her to hold them tight and I let Andrew hold my screwdriver so he didn't cry. Then I laughed and winked at him just like Ward Cleaver would do and I said "Don't poke out your eyes, little man." When he promised not to poke out his eyes I turned back to the washing machine and that stupid belt.

I rolled onto my stomach and peered into the darkness where the belt was hidden away. I couldn't see anything, but I reached around in there, proving blindly with my clever little hands. And that's when I made a horrible discovery. You see, the belt couldn't just be pulled out and swapped. Oh, nooooo. The geniuses who built the washer constructed it in such a way that first all these tubes full of stinky water (where does all this stinky water come from?) have to be disconnected and placed in such a way that they are guaranteed not to drip until you reach into the machine to grab something else. Then, they flip over and gush like fountains all over your arms and pump that stench-laden water up your sleeves at such an angle that it cascades down your arm until it reaches your armpit. From there, it heads south until it starts collecting in the banding of your underpants. It's not a fun experience.

But, as bad as it is, it's just the first torturous step of switching out the belt.

Now, after the tubes are removed and the water contained within is allowed to saturate your shirt and your underpants, the next step is to loosen up the bolts that were never meant to be loosened with normal wrenches. See, they are crammed in small, tight little spots so you can't grab them with any standard wrench. And, if you're lucky enough to get a wrench on the bolt, the minute you exert any kind of pressure, the wrench slides off the bolt and your knuckles smash against a sharp, steel edge that serves no real purpose except to smash your knuckles.

Well, I did that--I twisted the wrench, watched it slide off the bolt, watched my knuckles slam into the knuckle-crusher metals things--and then I threw my wrench across the room. For a long second, I stared at the washing machine. I hated it with the passion of a thousand burning suns. I still hate it. Stupid machine . . . .

Then, I took a deep breath and realized that Andrew was still standing there. He was watching me with big eyes as he munched on snacks, soaking in my every action and learning how to be an adult.

Good job, Dan.

Well, with the little guy watching everything I was doing, I tried once again to don my carefree, life-can't-get-me-down-no-matter-how-long-I-work-on-this-stupid -machine attitude. I was all smiles when I asked Andrew to go find my wrench.

He took one more bite of whatever he was eating, then he put his screwdriver down and plodded off into the darkest recesses of our basement. After a few minutes of scrabbling around in the dark he found the wrench. But on his way back he must have stubbed his toe. I heard a loud yell and saw my wrench come winging out of the darkness. It skidded to a stop at my feet. I stared at it and made a mental note: Andrew learns quickly (and he's got a good arm).

Eventually, he waddled back into the light, rubbing his toe, and he settled back to watch me finish my work. With a quick look at him, I picked up the wrench and turned back to the bolts that I needed to loosen. Then I sent Andrew upstairs so I could work with a little more freedom. And by "freedom" I mean "the opportunity to do whatever the heck I needed to do (or say) to get those stupid bolts off."

When I was sure he had disappeared into the living room and was zoning out in front of the television, I turned my attention back to my work. With the wrench back in my bloodied hand, I attacked those bolts. I started with the wrench, but I quickly broke out all of the tools in my arsenal: my wrench, a dremel, a drill, a rubber mallet, a spark-plug remover thing (not the technical name), and a nail punch. Surprisingly, nothing worked. The bolts remained cemented in place and I was forced to get creative.

Thus began an ugly experience that lasted for about an hour and involved an unusual mix of cross-eyed wrath and prayer, moments of tears coupled with frantic, maniacal laughter. In the end, I had two sets of bloody knuckles, I was no longer wearing pants, I had broken 3 drill bits, had received a couple shocks from a worn extension cord that I kept trying to plug in with wet hands, and had knocked over 4 baskets of clean laundry that were now scattered all over the slippery, stinky-water-covered floor. But most importantly, the bolts were off.

With success only a few minutes away, I yanked the motor out and flipped it over and immediately realized that my work wasn't quite done yet. In order to get at the belt and pull it off, I still had to remove a pump assembly and a couple other things that I don't even feel comfortable making names up for.

Well, it took a while and I had to really dig through all my tool drawers to find the right bits to remove the pump thingy, but in the end, I accomplished it. As I was unscrewing all the screws that held the pump thingy in place, I kept thinking to myself: "remember to take a good, long look at the belt and how it's positioned in there because the minute you pull this pump doo-dad off, the belts going to flop on the counter and you'll have to figure out how the new one's supposed to wrap around all those little pulleys and what-nots."

Yes, I was thinking all of those things when I removed the last screw and lifted the pump thingy off. The belt fell onto the counter just as I figured it would and I realized I had never looked at how it was positioned.

See, that sums me up entirely when it comes to projects. I'm full of good ideas and lots of bright thoughts. Problem is, I can never actually turn those ideas and thoughts into actions.

Well, it took me about six or eight tries to get that stupid thing back together correctly, but finally . . . finally I had it right. All I had to do was put that motor back in and I was done. This was easier said than done. The bolts were tough coming out and they were little buggers going back in, but eventually, that, too, was finished.

I turned on the washer and . . . it worked! Sure, the project had stolen 3 hours of my life, had ripped my knuckles open nearly to the bone, and caused me to lose one wrench in the darkest corner of the basement, left me standing in the basement in my underpants and cost me a few drill bits, but all that said, it was done--except for putting on the front panel and securing it with two simple screws, I was done.

So I grabbed the panel, mashed it in place and grabbed for the screws. Gone. I walked around and around, looking at the floor, going over the workbench in the work room, moving piles of laundry out of the way and digging through all my tools. Nothing. I lifted up the washer and ran my hand under it as far as I could reach. The stinky water had collected there with other things that were even more unsavory, but there were no screws. I found my pants floating in a puddle of grey water. I picked them up and rifled through the pockets--nothing. Just a soggy wallet, a couple pennies and a tootsie roll.

I munched on the tootsie roll as I thought back on the whole night trying to figure out what happened to those screws. And then it hit me: Tessa. Oh, mercy. 3 hours ago, I had given Tessa the screws.

Well, I bounded up the stairs, two at a time until I stood in the kitchen. In my socks and my underpants. Tessa was kneeling in the refrigerator, digging for snacks that she was told she couldn't have. I called her name and she jumped out and slammed the door and acted innocent even though there was half a strawberry hanging out of her mouth.

"Tessa . . . do you have daddy's screws?"

She nodded. (Oh, good . . . she still had them.) Then she looked at her hands and shook her head.

(Oh, crap).

"Tess . . . think, girl . . . think. Do you remember where they are? It's very important . . . ."

She nodded.

"Well, can you find them?"

Again, a nod.

"Good girl! Go! Go girl, go! Go find daddy's screws!" (It was kind of like an episode of Lassie--'Go find Timmy, girl, he's fallen in the well! Go, Lassie, go!")

Anyway, Tessa took off at a run and I followed eagerly. For a while.

She walked, nearly ran, in a straight line through our home and toward the back door.

"Tessa? Are the screws outside?"

She nodded.

Great--I was going to need pants to continue on the quest. In seconds, I was back in the kitchen in sweatpants, ready to follow. Tessa was back in the refrigerator and she had another strawberry in her mouth.

"Go find the screws, Tess! You can do it! Go find 'em, girl!"

She took off with a serious nod. Out the door we went and straight toward a certain spot on the yard. My hopes started to rise--she was so focused, she seemed to know exactly where she was going. We'd get Timmy out of the well, yet.

Then she darted to the left and continued in a straight line in that direction. My hopes started to sink.

Then, she stopped, suddenly, and stooped down. She picked something up off the ground! The screws!? No. Small stones.

She tossed the stones around in her hand and sat down on the grass, giggling and talking in garbled language that only she understands. Then she saw me and seriousness fell over her face like a shroud. Her eyes became refocused and she got up and started trucking off in another direction.

She was back on the trail! My hopes started to rise but then . . .

But then, her steps became less deliberate and she starting skipping and twirling in circles and dancing to music only she could hear. She picked up a leaf and sang to it like a princess in a movie and then she danced and frollicked all the way into the house, leaving me in the yard, scratching my head.

At first I was angry. But that emotion was replaced by a growing discomfort. It was dark and getting colder and my underpants were still wet. And I still needed to go back to the basement and mop up the mess I'd left down there. And I still needed to dig up some replacement screws so I could get that panel back on.

So, I pushed my frustration aside and marched into the house. The front door slammed behind me and I looked down at my sweatpants. No sense getting these dirty and wet . . . .

I finished up in socks and underpants.