One problem that I have with home repair projects is wanting to toss aside directions, rip open a package and just cut to the chase when starting a new home repair project. As my eyes get worse and the type font for directions on most packages gets smaller, this problem is getting worse.
It wasn’t until after I had my arms submerged in concrete up to my elbows in an attempt to mix it like bread dough, that I read the warnings about exposure to concrete having some carcinogenic effects. So I sat down, smoked a cigarette and contemplated the seriousness of the warning.
I must admit I tend to get rather careless in my zeal. As I described to my doctor the mass
of old wasps nests and other indiscernible matter that I scooped from inside a wall I was repairing, she said “You do use a mask when you are doing these things don’t you?” I gave her the “I should have had a V8” look, doing all but smacking myself on the forehead and exclaimed, “Hey that’s a good idea.” Her look was more like that of Dorothy on the “Golden Girls,” right after Rose had told the story of how her great Uncle Fruckenfroken was the ring leader of a Salmon circus in St. Olaf. In case you never saw the episode, the Salmon juggled tiny ginsu knives but sometimes accidentally filleted themselves.
Another fun incident I had regarding the ignoring of directions was when I first used that great stuff called Great Stuff, and neglected to read the part on the side of the can that said to wear gloves while handling it. For those who don’t know, it’s a squirtable expanding sealant for filling cracks and such.
First I tried gently pushing the trigger and squirting the expanding foam into the cracks, but it is like trying to get a cat into its carrier on the day it needs to go to the vet. The foam scatters in all directions! So I began smearing it into the cracks with my hands, until my hands were covered and I suddenly realized it was really sticky! Holding my fingers extended to avoid touching the ladder, I made my way down to the ground and rubbed my sticky fingers in the grass to clean them off. Big Mistake.
Now I had sticky hands covered in pieces of grass. I felt like Edward Scissorhands as the
long strands protruded from the end of each finger and I was unable to close my hands for fear they’d be permanently clenched together. I ended up in my bathroom using all of the carcinogenic cleansers I could find in order to scrub it off. Some of it took a couple of days to wear off.
Sticky things in general seem to have been my biggest challenges. Once, I decided to buy one of those mousetraps that is a sticky pad. I’m not sure why I even bought it, because the idea of finding some poor mouse dead and frozen forever in position just sends chills up my spine.
But this time it wasn’t me who neglected to follow the directions; it was my cat, Powder. Just as I’d peeled the back off and exposed the sticky side, Powder decided to jump up on the counter and see if it was food I was opening. Not having read the directions that indicated that cat’s tails are just as capable of being grasped in its clutches as mouse feet, Powder promptly gave me the “I want food” tail swish and the excitement began.
One swish caught his tail on the sticky pad and another swish of terrified surprise connected the same sticky pad to a bag of chips I had sitting on the counter. Before I knew it Powder was racing through the house with a mouse trap and a bag of chips rattling behind him and the chips they were a flyin’!
I ended up chasing him around the house with a pair of scissors to cut it off with, while hollering “Powder … Powder …You really should have read the directions.”
Saturday, July 18, 2009
The joy of being a truck drivin' woman
Anyone who is into home improvement either has a truck, or often dreams about it. Trucks can be useful for hauling lumber, mulch, and many other things. I had a big huge Suburban for a short time, but as with many other used vehicles I have purchased over the years, after owning it for a few months, I found myself sitting on the side of the road in the dead of winter, with steam pouring from under the hood as I waited for the tow truck to move the monstrosity back to my house, where I would stick a For Sale sign on it and wait to pass it along to the next sucker.
But before it broke I had the pleasure of filling it with tons of shingles I tore off my roof and then hauling them to the landfill – where, as is my way, I ended up seeing things I wanted to take home with me … things that might be able to be used for something some day. A great lattice fence was lying there and I went over to grab it from a stack of things set to one side, when the guy who works there drove over on his backhoe and yelled, “Hey, you can’t have that. It’s mine.”
Ahhh, I never thought I would, but I was actually experiencing landfill worker envy, thinking of all the free stuff he’s probably gathered over the years, the artistic things he can do with all that junk!
But back to the truck. I also had the opportunity of using it to haul massive amounts of mulch for my garden. And when I left it in the back of the Suburban for several days until steam filled the windows, I was inspired to do some Googling and find out about the possibilities of mulch spontaneously combusting. (It can happen!)
But, once again, back to the truck. I wrote the following column during those first exciting weeks before the truck began having problems with the water heater … which I should have fixed, before it over heated and locked up the engine.
Truck Drivin’ Woman Feels the Power
I’ve experienced a new feeling of power lately: the power of driving a truck. I found a really good deal on an old ’79 Suburban recently. I got it for $500 and it’s a huge Jed-Clampett-looking thing, with a hard top and windows in the back, and the color that isn’t rust is dark blue.
In the last few weeks I’ve finally had the chance to do some real hauling. While I still have my little Dodge Omni for day-to-day driving, maneuvering the Suburban out to get loads of mulch, building materials, bags of cement and other sundries has given me a whole new attitude.
You see, when you drive a compact vehicle like my Omni, you always have the feeling that if someone bigger runs into you you’ve just about had it. I mean, my last accident was a chain reaction at a stoplight. The van behind me and the pickup truck in front of me didn’t get a scratch, while the entire front of my car got totaled.
But this is not a concern when I’m driving this monstrous Suburban: a vehicle that is larger than your average pickup truck, a vehicle I have to climb to get into, a vehicle that makes me taller than almost all of the other drivers on the road.
When I first got behind the wheel of my Suburban, I was amazed at the view from up there. Everything was a lot smaller down on the ground and I could see down into people’s cars and see everything, and I mean everything, they were doing. It was pretty cool! Don’t be trying to straighten your underwear at stoplights! I can see it all!
I was a little nervous at first though. I was afraid for the others. I wasn’t sure if I could judge distance properly, and I didn’t want to sideswipe anyone.
So, I must admit, my doubts were reaffirmed as someone in Lowe’s parking lot began pointing at me in my truck and making faces like I was the last remaining human being and I was just spotted by one of the body snatchers. Then there was that inaudible comment someone made as I took a turn a little too wide. I couldn’t make out the words, but the voice said it all.
But now that I’m a little more used to driving my big ol’ honkin’ truck, I realize I am not the one who should be in fear. It’s the other guy that better start shakin’. I’ll wait a respectable amount of time for traffic to clear the road before I pull on. But, if they don’t start slowing down to let me in eventually, I’ll start throwing my weight around.
“Hah! It’s gonna hurt you a lot more than it’ll hurt me,” I say as I pull out. “Why I could just smash you to smithereens.”
I feel like I’ve gained a new respect from fellow truckers as well. Perhaps the ball cap pulled down over my eyes had something to do with it in addition to the truck, but the other day two men in a pickup truck drove by at slightly below my eye level.
The one in the passenger seat nodded and said a respectable, “How’s it going,” as he passed by. It was quite a change from the usual, “Hey baby.” You don’t make flirtatious comments to someone who could squash you like a bug.
But speaking of squashing others, I can’t quite figure out why I should have to pay liability insurance on the truck in addition to what I already pay on my car. I mean, I can only drive one at a time, therefore I can only smash one person’s car to smithereens at a time. I think liability insurance should be something that is carried on the driver, no matter what car they are driving. After all, it isn’t really the car that causes the accident.
Hopefully I’ll make up the money in savings I get through buying things in quantity though. For instance I was able to buy a “dipperful” (a backhoe shovelful) of mulch for $12, because I had the truck to put it in, whereas I would have probably had to spend three times as much if I had bought it by the bag.
But back to the truck. The feeling of power is really something. As I drive down the road I feel like cars are bowing and moving to let me by as I mumble threats under my breath.
I say to myself, “There’s a Volkswagen Beetle! Out of my way bug! Or I’ll squash you like … well … what you are! And then I see a Volvo or a Mercedes and I say, “You may be more expensive, but I could turn you into scrap heaps, Get outa my way!
Then I see a semi-tractor trailer with a big gasoline tank on the back and I say, “Ooops, my mistake! After you sir!”
But before it broke I had the pleasure of filling it with tons of shingles I tore off my roof and then hauling them to the landfill – where, as is my way, I ended up seeing things I wanted to take home with me … things that might be able to be used for something some day. A great lattice fence was lying there and I went over to grab it from a stack of things set to one side, when the guy who works there drove over on his backhoe and yelled, “Hey, you can’t have that. It’s mine.”
Ahhh, I never thought I would, but I was actually experiencing landfill worker envy, thinking of all the free stuff he’s probably gathered over the years, the artistic things he can do with all that junk!
But back to the truck. I also had the opportunity of using it to haul massive amounts of mulch for my garden. And when I left it in the back of the Suburban for several days until steam filled the windows, I was inspired to do some Googling and find out about the possibilities of mulch spontaneously combusting. (It can happen!)
But, once again, back to the truck. I wrote the following column during those first exciting weeks before the truck began having problems with the water heater … which I should have fixed, before it over heated and locked up the engine.
Truck Drivin’ Woman Feels the Power
I’ve experienced a new feeling of power lately: the power of driving a truck. I found a really good deal on an old ’79 Suburban recently. I got it for $500 and it’s a huge Jed-Clampett-looking thing, with a hard top and windows in the back, and the color that isn’t rust is dark blue.
In the last few weeks I’ve finally had the chance to do some real hauling. While I still have my little Dodge Omni for day-to-day driving, maneuvering the Suburban out to get loads of mulch, building materials, bags of cement and other sundries has given me a whole new attitude.
You see, when you drive a compact vehicle like my Omni, you always have the feeling that if someone bigger runs into you you’ve just about had it. I mean, my last accident was a chain reaction at a stoplight. The van behind me and the pickup truck in front of me didn’t get a scratch, while the entire front of my car got totaled.
But this is not a concern when I’m driving this monstrous Suburban: a vehicle that is larger than your average pickup truck, a vehicle I have to climb to get into, a vehicle that makes me taller than almost all of the other drivers on the road.
When I first got behind the wheel of my Suburban, I was amazed at the view from up there. Everything was a lot smaller down on the ground and I could see down into people’s cars and see everything, and I mean everything, they were doing. It was pretty cool! Don’t be trying to straighten your underwear at stoplights! I can see it all!
I was a little nervous at first though. I was afraid for the others. I wasn’t sure if I could judge distance properly, and I didn’t want to sideswipe anyone.
So, I must admit, my doubts were reaffirmed as someone in Lowe’s parking lot began pointing at me in my truck and making faces like I was the last remaining human being and I was just spotted by one of the body snatchers. Then there was that inaudible comment someone made as I took a turn a little too wide. I couldn’t make out the words, but the voice said it all.
But now that I’m a little more used to driving my big ol’ honkin’ truck, I realize I am not the one who should be in fear. It’s the other guy that better start shakin’. I’ll wait a respectable amount of time for traffic to clear the road before I pull on. But, if they don’t start slowing down to let me in eventually, I’ll start throwing my weight around.
“Hah! It’s gonna hurt you a lot more than it’ll hurt me,” I say as I pull out. “Why I could just smash you to smithereens.”
I feel like I’ve gained a new respect from fellow truckers as well. Perhaps the ball cap pulled down over my eyes had something to do with it in addition to the truck, but the other day two men in a pickup truck drove by at slightly below my eye level.
The one in the passenger seat nodded and said a respectable, “How’s it going,” as he passed by. It was quite a change from the usual, “Hey baby.” You don’t make flirtatious comments to someone who could squash you like a bug.
But speaking of squashing others, I can’t quite figure out why I should have to pay liability insurance on the truck in addition to what I already pay on my car. I mean, I can only drive one at a time, therefore I can only smash one person’s car to smithereens at a time. I think liability insurance should be something that is carried on the driver, no matter what car they are driving. After all, it isn’t really the car that causes the accident.
Hopefully I’ll make up the money in savings I get through buying things in quantity though. For instance I was able to buy a “dipperful” (a backhoe shovelful) of mulch for $12, because I had the truck to put it in, whereas I would have probably had to spend three times as much if I had bought it by the bag.
But back to the truck. The feeling of power is really something. As I drive down the road I feel like cars are bowing and moving to let me by as I mumble threats under my breath.
I say to myself, “There’s a Volkswagen Beetle! Out of my way bug! Or I’ll squash you like … well … what you are! And then I see a Volvo or a Mercedes and I say, “You may be more expensive, but I could turn you into scrap heaps, Get outa my way!
Then I see a semi-tractor trailer with a big gasoline tank on the back and I say, “Ooops, my mistake! After you sir!”
Coffee Cans Have Uses, But Not For “Romper Stompers”
Some time ago, I received a news release from Maxwell House coffee in which they listed all of the possible uses for a coffee can and for coffee itself.
Well, as you know, I can’t walk past a scrap of wood lying on the ground without wondering what I might use it for, so I found this list of ideas quite intriguing.
For instance, did you know that you can add a lustrous brown color to your hair by rinsing it in coffee? And at the same time, pouring coffee on a grill can help clean it!
Why do I find these two ideas somewhat contradictory?
Well here’s something that might never have occurred to me: If you have a white table cloth with a coffee stain on it, forget about removing the stain, just soak the entire table cloth in coffee and make it into a brown table cloth.
Hmmm … there are so many things in life to which that same reasoning could be applied. Like … if you have a wrinkle in your pants, take them off and wad them up until you have matching wrinkles all over! Or … if you car has a dent in the hood, run it into a wall and make matching dents! But I’m not knocking it. I actually have quite a few T-shirts that are stained by coffee and I’m willing to take a shot at the coffee dye job.
Other uses for coffee cans included the usual, such as having something to keep your paint or your fishin’ worms in, and there were some uses I thought were just variations on the use-them-to-keep-things-in theory, such as using them to hold cookies, nuts and bolts, or sugar.
And there were some ideas that were quite helpful. For instance, it never occurred to me to cut the top and bottom off a coffee can and put it around fragile seedlings in my garden; and it never occurred to me to use the cans to lift certain vine-like plants off of the ground. Interestingly, the list said that the metal cans end up also serving to ripen fruit on the vines quicker because they gather heat. And the heat repels insects!
But when I began thinking of uses I had witnessed for coffee cans during my childhood, my first thought was of the one thing nobody, but nobody, should ever encourage a kid to use coffee cans for. Remember the old children’s show “Romper Room?” Remember Romper Stompers?
I believe Romper Stompers were developed as some diabolical plot by someone who really didn’t like children and wanted to make sure as many as possible were killed by their parents. I remember seeing the Romper Room lady demonstrate how to make the Stompers by tying strings to coffee cans so you could hold them to the bottom of your feet and walk on them as coffee-can stilts. Then you could stomp all around the house and sing a Romper Stomper tune!
Yeah, I remember that my mother conveniently didn’t have any coffee cans I could use for the purpose.
But I guarantee that walking on Romper Stompers would not have made for a happy time once I got to clanging around the room for a few hours and scuffing circular holes throughout the hardwood floors. What were those Romper people thinking?
Well. Gotta go now. It’s time to get another cup of coffee.
Hey! There’s a use!
Well, as you know, I can’t walk past a scrap of wood lying on the ground without wondering what I might use it for, so I found this list of ideas quite intriguing.
For instance, did you know that you can add a lustrous brown color to your hair by rinsing it in coffee? And at the same time, pouring coffee on a grill can help clean it!
Why do I find these two ideas somewhat contradictory?
Well here’s something that might never have occurred to me: If you have a white table cloth with a coffee stain on it, forget about removing the stain, just soak the entire table cloth in coffee and make it into a brown table cloth.
Hmmm … there are so many things in life to which that same reasoning could be applied. Like … if you have a wrinkle in your pants, take them off and wad them up until you have matching wrinkles all over! Or … if you car has a dent in the hood, run it into a wall and make matching dents! But I’m not knocking it. I actually have quite a few T-shirts that are stained by coffee and I’m willing to take a shot at the coffee dye job.
Other uses for coffee cans included the usual, such as having something to keep your paint or your fishin’ worms in, and there were some uses I thought were just variations on the use-them-to-keep-things-in theory, such as using them to hold cookies, nuts and bolts, or sugar.
And there were some ideas that were quite helpful. For instance, it never occurred to me to cut the top and bottom off a coffee can and put it around fragile seedlings in my garden; and it never occurred to me to use the cans to lift certain vine-like plants off of the ground. Interestingly, the list said that the metal cans end up also serving to ripen fruit on the vines quicker because they gather heat. And the heat repels insects!
But when I began thinking of uses I had witnessed for coffee cans during my childhood, my first thought was of the one thing nobody, but nobody, should ever encourage a kid to use coffee cans for. Remember the old children’s show “Romper Room?” Remember Romper Stompers?
I believe Romper Stompers were developed as some diabolical plot by someone who really didn’t like children and wanted to make sure as many as possible were killed by their parents. I remember seeing the Romper Room lady demonstrate how to make the Stompers by tying strings to coffee cans so you could hold them to the bottom of your feet and walk on them as coffee-can stilts. Then you could stomp all around the house and sing a Romper Stomper tune!
Yeah, I remember that my mother conveniently didn’t have any coffee cans I could use for the purpose.
But I guarantee that walking on Romper Stompers would not have made for a happy time once I got to clanging around the room for a few hours and scuffing circular holes throughout the hardwood floors. What were those Romper people thinking?
Well. Gotta go now. It’s time to get another cup of coffee.
Hey! There’s a use!
You Can’t Compromise with Fine Thread Screws
Christmas often holds great frustrations for those who decide they want to give someone a particular gift, but can’t find it anywhere. As opposed to people like me, who go out shopping for an hour or so and grab whatever is on the shelves that happens to be close to something that person might like to have.
I guess it’s because I’m a person of compromises. One of my car doors gets smashed in, so I get in on the passenger side of my vehicle from then on. I have a dryer but haven’t got a washer yet, so I go to the Laundromat to do the wash and bring it home to dry on hangers. No big deal. There are worse things in life to worry about ... like whether my bed will suddenly collapse while there is a cat lying under it, or whether I have enough coffee to wake up with tomorrow morning.
These are two things that cannot be compromised on. Cats must be round and fluffy, not flat and squashed. And coffee must be ever present, or I will be a walking zombie.
Oh! And there is something else that cannot be compromised on. And these are things that are very hard to find.
They’re, They’re, They’re … FINE-THREAD SCREWS!
I recently took two faucets apart to replace the leaky seals, but somehow managed to lose the one screw that holds each one’s handle on. So I went to the local hardware store with my faucet handle and said “I need a screw for this.”
The man took one look at it and said, “That needs a find-thread screw. We don’t carry fine-thread screws.”
So I gave up on that project for awhile and went on with other repairs. But as the weeks went by, I ended up losing a screw from my hedge clippers, my wheelbarrow, and numerous other gadgets. I went to the hardware store again, bringing my hedge clippers with me, plus the extra screw from my wheelbarrow, and I asked the clerks at every hardware store in town for screws that fit. But what did I get? “Those require fine-thread screws. We don’t carry fine-thread screws.”
I felt almost dirty … like I was at a video store and asking for a copy of “American Booty” or “Spankenstein.”
But as with many obsessions, my shame did not stop me from looking. Everywhere I went I began looking for fine-thread screws … in stores, in people’s houses … If I was walking down the street and happened to glance down and see an old screw lying on the ground, I would wonder if it was a fine-thread screw.
But after months of agonizing dreams, my obsession finally began to wane … until a friend came by my house the other day and tried to turn on my kitchen faucet, after just having been in the bathroom … “Why is it that all of your faucets come off when you turn them?” she said.
I held my breath, tried to compose myself, but finally I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“BECAUSE THERE IS A @@#%^ SHORTAGE OF FINE-THREAD SCREWS IN THIS WORLD!!!” I shouted.
Now I feel the obsession coming on again. I’m thinking that, if I weren’t an honest person, I could steal screws from the faucets in public bathrooms, or slowly take apart the office computers bit by bit just to have the screws.But you know … if I’m desperate enough to let thoughts like this run through my mind, then there are probably others out there who will really do it. When you walk into your office some day and your chair collapses on you, or your computer falls apart when you touch it, you will know that The Great Fine-Thread Screw Wars have already begun
I guess it’s because I’m a person of compromises. One of my car doors gets smashed in, so I get in on the passenger side of my vehicle from then on. I have a dryer but haven’t got a washer yet, so I go to the Laundromat to do the wash and bring it home to dry on hangers. No big deal. There are worse things in life to worry about ... like whether my bed will suddenly collapse while there is a cat lying under it, or whether I have enough coffee to wake up with tomorrow morning.
These are two things that cannot be compromised on. Cats must be round and fluffy, not flat and squashed. And coffee must be ever present, or I will be a walking zombie.
Oh! And there is something else that cannot be compromised on. And these are things that are very hard to find.
They’re, They’re, They’re … FINE-THREAD SCREWS!
I recently took two faucets apart to replace the leaky seals, but somehow managed to lose the one screw that holds each one’s handle on. So I went to the local hardware store with my faucet handle and said “I need a screw for this.”
The man took one look at it and said, “That needs a find-thread screw. We don’t carry fine-thread screws.”
So I gave up on that project for awhile and went on with other repairs. But as the weeks went by, I ended up losing a screw from my hedge clippers, my wheelbarrow, and numerous other gadgets. I went to the hardware store again, bringing my hedge clippers with me, plus the extra screw from my wheelbarrow, and I asked the clerks at every hardware store in town for screws that fit. But what did I get? “Those require fine-thread screws. We don’t carry fine-thread screws.”
I felt almost dirty … like I was at a video store and asking for a copy of “American Booty” or “Spankenstein.”
But as with many obsessions, my shame did not stop me from looking. Everywhere I went I began looking for fine-thread screws … in stores, in people’s houses … If I was walking down the street and happened to glance down and see an old screw lying on the ground, I would wonder if it was a fine-thread screw.
But after months of agonizing dreams, my obsession finally began to wane … until a friend came by my house the other day and tried to turn on my kitchen faucet, after just having been in the bathroom … “Why is it that all of your faucets come off when you turn them?” she said.
I held my breath, tried to compose myself, but finally I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“BECAUSE THERE IS A @@#%^ SHORTAGE OF FINE-THREAD SCREWS IN THIS WORLD!!!” I shouted.
Now I feel the obsession coming on again. I’m thinking that, if I weren’t an honest person, I could steal screws from the faucets in public bathrooms, or slowly take apart the office computers bit by bit just to have the screws.But you know … if I’m desperate enough to let thoughts like this run through my mind, then there are probably others out there who will really do it. When you walk into your office some day and your chair collapses on you, or your computer falls apart when you touch it, you will know that The Great Fine-Thread Screw Wars have already begun
Men’s work/women’s work; It’s All the Same
Throughout our lives we’ve all heard the expressions “women’s work” and “men’s work.”
A man makes dinner or does the laundry and people say that’s women’s work he’s doing. A woman does body work on her car or patches a sidewalk with cement and that’s men’s work.
I often wonder whoever decided how to categorize them and how they decided which would be which. When you think about it, a lot of men’s work is pretty similar to women’s work and a lot of it doesn’t have a bit to do with men being any stronger.
Take for instance, sewing vs. rewiring a light fixture. Sewing requires patience, steady hands and agile fingers for intricate detail work. You take a string, smooth the end as much as possible and carefully insert it in the end of a needle. Then you tie some knots and begin connecting the fabric.
If you rewire a light fixture, you strip some of the coating of the ends of your wires and carefully thread them into a wire nut, or just twist them together and seal them with electrical tape.
The only difference is, with the latter you really need to turn off the breaker first, and if you connect the wrong colored wires, you will hear a loud pop and blow a fuse.
Now look at the cooking thing vs. patching a sidewalk or repairing a fender. A woman may make a cake by taking various ingredients and mixing them together, with certain knowledge of how they will combine chemically and texturally to create the finished product.
She knows that baking powder will make it rise and eggs will make it stick together, and flour will give it some substance. Combined with that is the knowledge of the baking temperature and length of time needed for baking.
Similarly, a man may mix cement by using a mix that he combines with water. He must add just the right amount of water to give it the appropriate consistency. Combined with that is the knowledge of how moist it needs to be kept as it cures and how long it takes to cure.
Granted, a bag of cement mix is a little heavier than a bag of flour, but there are always ways of getting around that, if you don’t like pushing yourself to the limit and pulling your back muscles to pieces as I have done. Have someone at the store load it into your car, then scoop small amounts out of the bag.
And when it comes to frosting a cake, or patching a sidewalk, it is all a matter of pouring and spreading.
Now, we examine the process of doing body work on a car. As in making a cake, when a man does body work on his car, he knows that he needs to mix the body putty for substance, the cream hardeners for, uh … hardening, then smooth it on to fit the contours of the car and later sand it to fit those contours even better.
Well, any woman who has ever baked a cake, eaten most of it by herself, gained 10 pounds and tried to squash and smooth the contours of her body into a tight pair of jeans, knows full well how to do that too!
A man makes dinner or does the laundry and people say that’s women’s work he’s doing. A woman does body work on her car or patches a sidewalk with cement and that’s men’s work.
I often wonder whoever decided how to categorize them and how they decided which would be which. When you think about it, a lot of men’s work is pretty similar to women’s work and a lot of it doesn’t have a bit to do with men being any stronger.
Take for instance, sewing vs. rewiring a light fixture. Sewing requires patience, steady hands and agile fingers for intricate detail work. You take a string, smooth the end as much as possible and carefully insert it in the end of a needle. Then you tie some knots and begin connecting the fabric.
If you rewire a light fixture, you strip some of the coating of the ends of your wires and carefully thread them into a wire nut, or just twist them together and seal them with electrical tape.
The only difference is, with the latter you really need to turn off the breaker first, and if you connect the wrong colored wires, you will hear a loud pop and blow a fuse.
Now look at the cooking thing vs. patching a sidewalk or repairing a fender. A woman may make a cake by taking various ingredients and mixing them together, with certain knowledge of how they will combine chemically and texturally to create the finished product.
She knows that baking powder will make it rise and eggs will make it stick together, and flour will give it some substance. Combined with that is the knowledge of the baking temperature and length of time needed for baking.
Similarly, a man may mix cement by using a mix that he combines with water. He must add just the right amount of water to give it the appropriate consistency. Combined with that is the knowledge of how moist it needs to be kept as it cures and how long it takes to cure.
Granted, a bag of cement mix is a little heavier than a bag of flour, but there are always ways of getting around that, if you don’t like pushing yourself to the limit and pulling your back muscles to pieces as I have done. Have someone at the store load it into your car, then scoop small amounts out of the bag.
And when it comes to frosting a cake, or patching a sidewalk, it is all a matter of pouring and spreading.
Now, we examine the process of doing body work on a car. As in making a cake, when a man does body work on his car, he knows that he needs to mix the body putty for substance, the cream hardeners for, uh … hardening, then smooth it on to fit the contours of the car and later sand it to fit those contours even better.
Well, any woman who has ever baked a cake, eaten most of it by herself, gained 10 pounds and tried to squash and smooth the contours of her body into a tight pair of jeans, knows full well how to do that too!
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