My 21 year old son is home this week from England for some R&R. I don't want him to go back but he will and when he does he'll take a big chunk of me with him. I've written about my son many times but this essay is my favourite. I hope you like it.
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After three years spent sitting in a draft from my front door’s leaking letter box the ex-husband spent our marriage promising to fix, I finally nailed the bastard with a draft excluder last week.
Mind you, it took three trips to the hardware store before finding the right one. Who knew there were so many excluders to choose from? The first was too big, the second too complicated, the third just right. I then looked for the toolbox last seen in the garage but found only the drill hiding under the kitchen sink. I called the ex-husband.
“What do you mean your tools? You got the car remember? And the CDs and the …”
Mind you, it took three trips to the hardware store before finding the right one. Who knew there were so many excluders to choose from? The first was too big, the second too complicated, the third just right. I then looked for the toolbox last seen in the garage but found only the drill hiding under the kitchen sink. I called the ex-husband.
“What do you mean your tools? You got the car remember? And the CDs and the …”
"Screw you," I said, hanging up before he could ask about the drill. All I’d gained was one less co-dependent.
Arriving back at the hardware store I hesitated before going in. Four trips in one day was embarrassing. What if one of the assistants thought I fancied him? Rubbish, I countered, pulling on a hat. They wouldn’t notice a hurricane, never mind a middle-aged customer on serial trips.
Returning home, I lined up the new tools, marked off the first hole and powered up the drill. The wood resisted at first but I held firm, focused on the ex-husband and drilled through to the bitter end. A faint burning smell tickled my nostrils but I assumed this to be a normal reaction of wood meeting metal. Once done, I sat back and laughed. It was perfect.
"Va-va-voom!" I sang, revving the drill in the air and wishing the ex-husband could see me. "You looking at me?"
"Bang!" The drill jack-knifed out of my hand and onto the ground. I stared at the sparks spluttering out of the vent before running to the kitchen for some water. Realizing my stupidity I double-backed and yanked out the plug instead. Too late. Flames were now licking the doormat. I tore off my shirt, threw it over the drill, opened the door and kicked the smouldering pile onto the pavement.
Arriving back at the hardware store I hesitated before going in. Four trips in one day was embarrassing. What if one of the assistants thought I fancied him? Rubbish, I countered, pulling on a hat. They wouldn’t notice a hurricane, never mind a middle-aged customer on serial trips.
Returning home, I lined up the new tools, marked off the first hole and powered up the drill. The wood resisted at first but I held firm, focused on the ex-husband and drilled through to the bitter end. A faint burning smell tickled my nostrils but I assumed this to be a normal reaction of wood meeting metal. Once done, I sat back and laughed. It was perfect.
"Va-va-voom!" I sang, revving the drill in the air and wishing the ex-husband could see me. "You looking at me?"
"Bang!" The drill jack-knifed out of my hand and onto the ground. I stared at the sparks spluttering out of the vent before running to the kitchen for some water. Realizing my stupidity I double-backed and yanked out the plug instead. Too late. Flames were now licking the doormat. I tore off my shirt, threw it over the drill, opened the door and kicked the smouldering pile onto the pavement.
"What the hell are you playing at?" A passing neighbour gawped first at the ground and then at my naked torso. I smiled and slammed the door.
An hour later I dumped the cremated drill in the bin before traipsing halfway acrossDublin
Chuck him, I thought, struggling to tighten the drill-bit by variously using the useless chucking yoke retrieved from the dead drill, screwdrivers, pliers and a pencil. The drill-bit wobbled slightly on entering the wood but seemed to be holding so I increased the pressure whereupon it cracked in two propelling me head first into the door. I doctored my wounds and returned to the mortified brother's house where we eventually found his chucking yoke in a box labelled 'four inch screws box'.
The following day I started over only to discover the extension lead I'd left by the front door had sprouted legs and walked. Why is it when you want something moved it stays put but when you don't it disappears into thin air? I started my search in the last but most logical place I wanted to look – my teenage son’s bedroom.
Holding my nose I dived in and found the extension lead lurking under his bed alongside a 'lost' hurley stick replaced two weeks ago, a green sandwich and a tasty boob’s magazine. How the heck do they get comfy at night? I wondered, flicking through the magazine and debating the wisdom of asking the ex-husband to handle this one. Deciding that class of a chat would be better coming from my son’s grandfather, I shoved the boobs back into hiding and started drilling again. Five minutes later I was forced to stop when my son came barging through the front door.
“Jaysus Ma, what's wrong with using superglue and nails?”
An hour later I dumped the cremated drill in the bin before traipsing halfway across
Chuck him, I thought, struggling to tighten the drill-bit by variously using the useless chucking yoke retrieved from the dead drill, screwdrivers, pliers and a pencil. The drill-bit wobbled slightly on entering the wood but seemed to be holding so I increased the pressure whereupon it cracked in two propelling me head first into the door. I doctored my wounds and returned to the mortified brother's house where we eventually found his chucking yoke in a box labelled 'four inch screws box'.
The following day I started over only to discover the extension lead I'd left by the front door had sprouted legs and walked. Why is it when you want something moved it stays put but when you don't it disappears into thin air? I started my search in the last but most logical place I wanted to look – my teenage son’s bedroom.
Holding my nose I dived in and found the extension lead lurking under his bed alongside a 'lost' hurley stick replaced two weeks ago, a green sandwich and a tasty boob’s magazine. How the heck do they get comfy at night? I wondered, flicking through the magazine and debating the wisdom of asking the ex-husband to handle this one. Deciding that class of a chat would be better coming from my son’s grandfather, I shoved the boobs back into hiding and started drilling again. Five minutes later I was forced to stop when my son came barging through the front door.
“Jaysus Ma, what's wrong with using superglue and nails?”
Within moments we had the draft excluder hammered up over the letter box in such a way as to hide scratches, appear reasonably level if one squints sideways on while still leaving sufficient room to allow mail squeeze through if rammed hard enough.
Everyone complains about it, especially the postman, but it's not coming down and here's why. The ex-husband would have sat watching while criticising. My son knuckled down and helped. And therein lies a difference I need no longer worry about.
Everyone complains about it, especially the postman, but it's not coming down and here's why. The ex-husband would have sat watching while criticising. My son knuckled down and helped. And therein lies a difference I need no longer worry about.
First published in Underwired 2010
