A screw is loose, right now, inside my house.
I know, it’s a Breakfast Club level tragedy or something, but here we are living our lives with a screw that’s loose. If only my high school crush, Molly Ringwald, would come fix it.
Actually that’s a lie. The screw isn’t loose, it’s gone. It’s fallen out of its “screw hole,” (which isn’t half as dirty as it sounds) and has been lost. I’m assuming the vacuum cleaner ate it, but I have very little evidence to back that up.
For all I know, ice-weasel ninjas stole it in the middle of the night.
The point is — a small screw that keeps nothing together that gravity isn’t capable of holding together has vanished and this travesty has made its way on to the calendar my wife and I share.
I don’t know if you and your do this or not, but my wife and I sure do. We have a calendar that’s hung on the wall upon which we write down significant, albeit sometimes mundane, appointments and events. A birthday party, we’re invited to? Yeah, that makes the calendar. An odd bill comes due for one of us? Oh indeed we put that on the calendar. Dental appointment? You bet your front tooth that goes on the calendar.
Basically, anything of any sort of significance goes on the calendar, until recently.
My wife violated our calendar’s sacred trust. She wrote down “Fix Screw” on the calendar. Look, its right there. I’m not good enough with Photoshop to fake that kind of shit.
That’s her reminder that (New Year’s Day no less –way to start off the year babe) she directed me to replace the screw that held almost nothing together. Because, she frequently claims in a statement made out of whole , (what the hell does that mean by the way) I “never do anything.” Well, if that was true, how is this being written? Huh, honey? Writing this is doing something, so that pretty much blows your theory right out of the water doesn’t it?
Now to be fair, I did toy with the idea of absolutely not fixing this screw because I’m a dickhole when it comes to stuff like this. “What? You’re going to write a completely pointless task you’ve arbitrarily assigned me on our calendar in the mistaken belief you can calendar-shame me into fixing it? All I can say in response to that is ha-ha-ha-ha!” I played around with the idea of seeing how many months, or even years, I could go without fixing this screw.
Again, the screw did little if anything at all. It, in theory, held two cheap and lightweight pieces of metal together on the completely detached bed “frame” of her bed.
Yeah, her bed. We sleep in separate beds because, if half her stories are true, sleeping with me is akin to sleeping in a war zone alongside a violent psychopath, I take pill from https://www.ukmeds.co.uk/treatments/sleeping-tablets/ambien-zolpidem/ so I usually have a heavy sleep. When not snoring, farting, scratching my ass, wildly flailing around and, for all I know, running an illicit online gambling operation, I’m still constantly kicking the covers off and then pulling them back on the entire night long.
I, of course, deny all of this* and maintain she just dreams these things happen, but she’s more rested in the morning if she sleeps in a separate bed and I can leave the Simpsons DVDs in the bedroom on repeat in case I wake up at 2 a.m. and need to catch up on what type on shenanigans Bart and Lisa are up too. Hey, it happens.
The point is that little missing screw in no way, shape or form had any sort of negative impact on her bed. Not physically and not cosmetically. If you were unaware of its existence you’d look at her bed and think, “Man I could get some good ball-scratching night’s sleep in there.”
It was a pointless little “fuck all” task that could have been and likely should have been completely ignored. Last winter I remarked on Facebook that one Sunday afternoon while I cleaned the garage my wife came and told me I should, move the stack of fire wood to the other side of the garage, sweep under where the stack of firewood was and then move all the firewood back again. This was at the start of winter. The initial stacking of said firewood had taken an entire Saturday afternoon, so yeah.
It was a request I promptly rolled my eyes at and ignored, while popping open a beer and entertaining 10 topless models if I remember correctly. Regardless, I do know no firewood was moved and there was zero sweeping under the firewood that day.
But fuck this one was on the CALENDAR. She put that shit on THE calendar. Now I couldn’t ignore it. It would be there looking me in the face every day. A great big “FIX SCREW” in Dagmar handwriting and fuck, it’s already past due. I mean it was “pointlessly past due,” but past due none the less.
But friends, I’m strong. I totally, and with steel as my backbone, completely and totally fixed that shit on Sunday. I went up there, took the bed frame apart, carried the “screw hole” portion of the frame to the garage, found a screw compatible with the empty screw hole and then put the damned thing back together. I did this because of a calendar, because the paper on the wall told me to do it. (Todd, why didn’t you just carry the container that holds to the screws up to the bed? ~ Fran)
This year, it no longer has a few screws loose.
* Her assessment of my violent sleeping is of course 100 percent spot on. On weekends we do sleep in the same bed. Last Sunday morning I was rudely awakened by screaming, cries of pain and vicious fists on my back. While, gently, turning over in my slumber I had inadvertently clocked her on the back of the head. If it wasn’t for the fact that I am asleep, even I wouldn’t sleep with me.
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