Sure, I can handle the job
It’s far too embarrassing to explain the actual reason for this, but on one evening recently I found myself at Home Depot.
If you knew me at all, you would realize that wandering into that particular mega-store was only slightly more absurd than if I were suddenly to appear on stage with Cirque du Soleil.
Perhaps even more perspective is needed: For years, I would have guessed that DIY was some sort of traffic law violation.
You are, of course, familiar with Mike Patrick — the gifted gentleman in charge of this newspaper’s editorial content and, amazingly, the only person I’ve ever known who is almost as clueless about “handy” work as myself.
OK, I’m way dumber, but for the sake of some tales …
Example No. 1: Mr. Patrick and I once spent an entire afternoon reading directions for assembling a waterbed frame (perhaps in Chinese, to be fair), carrying out the task in brutal heat, and ultimately collapsing in victory — only to discover that one end of the thing was upside down.
Now a normal person might ask: “But how could you miss seeing that the ends didn’t match when you were putting in the screws?”
My point, precisely.
UNFAIR as it might be to thrash the boss before returning to my own silliness at Home Depot, I just have to bring up “Example No. 2.”
This one involved trying to repair the Patrick household dishwasher — and you’re giggling already, I can hear it.
We failed and were fortunate to do so — as we learned later when a proper, qualified installer informed us that the thing could have exploded.
Literally.
Right, now let’s tuck away Mike’s qualifications (as I’m hoping to stay employed) and return to Home Depot.
“I’m looking for some electrical tape,” I said briskly to a chap at the customer service desk, already marking myself as an idiot who just should have mentioned “silver tape” and left it at that.
In less than a minute, I had already confused the staff — since my task had nothing whatsoever to do with electricity and (I looked this up afterward) electrical tape’s key feature is insulation — which again had no bearing on my needs at all.
You’re getting the picture, eh?
HAPPILY, I ran into a very patient employee during a search for Aisle 39.
His name is Wade Hulsizer, and as I stared blankly like a third-grader trying to grasp quantum physics, Wade gently explained that the silver stuff I had in mind was actually plain old duct tape.
We discussed my project briefly, and Wade said I might also want some epoxy for further strength.
He found an inexpensive but useful brand that has two tubes, and apparently you’re supposed to mix the stuff until it becomes hot — and then in just minutes, Wade insisted, it would hold at least 100 pounds of weight until the Apocalypse.
Or longer.
Instantly, I pictured myself becoming North Idaho’s answer to Flick, the kid from “A Christmas Story” who got his tongue stuck on a frozen flag pole.
The image was right there: Kootenai County rescue crews called to deal with a brain-dead journalist who somehow epoxies three fingers and his pants to the garage wall.
But you can relax, Wade. The job got done without any animals or morons being harmed.
Was it a success? Um, we won’t know for a few days.
And apologies, mate, but I chickened out and went with just the duct tape. Never even dared to open the glue from hell.
After all, Flick had the excuse of a “Triple Dog Dare.”
I was just a frightened volunteer.
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Steve Cameron is a special assignment reporter for The Press. Reach Steve via email at [email protected].