I was so much in the mood for a movie-fest this weekend and, as per usual when I’m actually in the mood to sit and veg in front of the screen for several hours, there was nothing on pay-per-view I particularly wanted to see (DirecTV plots against me, I’m sure of it). The rents recommend Open Range with Robert Duvall and Kevin Costner, but I’m not so sure. That movie violates Helly’s Movie Precept #4, which is: any movie starring Kevin Costner which is not about baseball sucks extreme donkey balls. Don’t believe me? Bull Durham - The Bodyguard. Field of Dreams - The Postman. For Love of the Game - Message in a Bottle. See how that works? And before you say anything, Cheryl, The Untouchables does not enter into the equation because of the overriding Sean Connery Factor. Anyway, last evening I watched Underworld, which is about a war between vampires and werewolves, starring Kate Beckinsale as a lovely vampire death-dealer. I want to be a vampire. I’m not sure I’d like feeding on blood, but the species does have that whole immortality angle going for them. Plus, in the movies vampire boys are very beautiful, and Craven in Underworld was no exception.
Since I couldn’t couch and watch movies all weekend, on Saturday I attempted some home repair instead. Ever since the first bitterly cold freeze of the year, my garage door has been sticking when it gets close to the bottom, so the automatic opener tries to bounce it back open but sticks heading up from that point, too. I have to get out of the car, hit the clicker while stepping on the handle to push it down, which I’m not too lazy to do but don’t enjoy during these frequent winter deluges. Armed with a can of WD-40, I headed to the garage. (As far as home improvements go, I believe that if whatever it is can’t be fixed with WD-40, duct tape or both, I need a new one.) I sprayed all the rails, wheels and roller-bolt thingies (that’s an engineering term) but that didn’t work. So next I tried to be all patient and observant like my dad, and pay very close attention as I raised and lowered the door so I could determine the precise location at which the problem occurred. After quite some time, during which I was unsuccessful in locating the problem, I realized that I was being a total dork, standing out in my garage doing this Homer Simpson impression: door goes up! Door goes down! Door goes UP! Door goes DOWN! Between this exercise and some other factors, I lost my temper and kicked the utter crap out of the garage door. If this was a moral, virtuous sort of blog, I’d conclude by explaining that all I have now is a non-working garage door in worse condition than before, plus sore toes. But since it’s my blog about my real life, the upshot of that whole story is that after my temper tantrum, my garage door is working perfectly and, thanks to Doc Marten, my toes aren’t even sore. I’d like to believe my mother was right all those years, telling me that I must learn to control my temper but field tests indicate otherwise...perhaps I’ll give up temper tantrums for Lent, although I’ve already committed to giving up chocolate and I suspect that avoiding both might be mutually exclusive.
Since I couldn’t couch and watch movies all weekend, on Saturday I attempted some home repair instead. Ever since the first bitterly cold freeze of the year, my garage door has been sticking when it gets close to the bottom, so the automatic opener tries to bounce it back open but sticks heading up from that point, too. I have to get out of the car, hit the clicker while stepping on the handle to push it down, which I’m not too lazy to do but don’t enjoy during these frequent winter deluges. Armed with a can of WD-40, I headed to the garage. (As far as home improvements go, I believe that if whatever it is can’t be fixed with WD-40, duct tape or both, I need a new one.) I sprayed all the rails, wheels and roller-bolt thingies (that’s an engineering term) but that didn’t work. So next I tried to be all patient and observant like my dad, and pay very close attention as I raised and lowered the door so I could determine the precise location at which the problem occurred. After quite some time, during which I was unsuccessful in locating the problem, I realized that I was being a total dork, standing out in my garage doing this Homer Simpson impression: door goes up! Door goes down! Door goes UP! Door goes DOWN! Between this exercise and some other factors, I lost my temper and kicked the utter crap out of the garage door. If this was a moral, virtuous sort of blog, I’d conclude by explaining that all I have now is a non-working garage door in worse condition than before, plus sore toes. But since it’s my blog about my real life, the upshot of that whole story is that after my temper tantrum, my garage door is working perfectly and, thanks to Doc Marten, my toes aren’t even sore. I’d like to believe my mother was right all those years, telling me that I must learn to control my temper but field tests indicate otherwise...perhaps I’ll give up temper tantrums for Lent, although I’ve already committed to giving up chocolate and I suspect that avoiding both might be mutually exclusive.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home