Back on the Chain Gang

“You couldn’t cross the street by yourself until you were twelve,” my aunt likes to remind me each time I see her. “And you couldn’t use a goddamned can opener either.” I’d like to say she is exaggerating even though these seem to be her fondest memories of me. I know for a fact that I was crossing the street before age 12 (maybe even before eleven and a half), but the can opener, well, that might be true. I don’t know how old I was, but I do know that my neighbor Noelle and I got into such an intense fight about the can opener that I left her house. She wanted me to open a can of tuna for lunch and I protested that I couldn’t use a can opener; she thought I was just being lazy (who can’t use a can opener?). I believe we eventually made up, and we are facebook friends now, but my inability to do some of life’s simplest little actions can perplex some people and by some people I mean everyone, including me.

I’d like to blame my parents, as most forty year olds with any kind of issue do, but at some point I guess I have to admit I’ve grown up, so obviously the appropriate person to blame would be my husband. Fine, fine it doesn’t matter who is blamed for my deficiencies, as long as it’s not me. These little deficits of mine aren’t much in the whole scheme of things, but when you are sitting in a pool of your own sweat with a small Allen wrench in one hand and tufts of the hair you've been pulling out of your head  in the other you think “if I was anyone other than Aimee, this wouldn’t be happening.” Well actually you wouldn’t think that, I would think that because I’m me, and you, luckily, are not.

Today, without going into too much detail (frankly, I did go into too much detail about this in my first version of this blog and it didn’t work, so I’m going to take 882 words and put it into three  or four sentences), yes today I found myself at 6:30 in the evening in a struggle with our front door at school. The problem that should have been fixed with an Allen wrench and about two seconds of patience turned into a sweat inducing, hair pulling, tear evoking scene. At some point I called Mike and told him I was just going to sleep at the school because, though I have seen several people do it before, I couldn’t shut the door. Mike laughed, he thought I was kidding. I absolutely wasn’t kidding.

Yesterday, after the untimely death of our dear toaster, I learned from a coworker how to broil my English muffin in the oven. YESTERDAY! If this is not astonishing let me say it again and I will put all important words in caps so you can understand the ridiculousness of this. YESTERDAY I LEARNED THAT YOU CAN BROIL AN ENGLISH MUFFIN IN THE OVEN. YESTERDAY I LEARNED THAT YOU HAVE TO SET YOUR OVEN TO BROIL AND PUT THE PART YOU WANT TOASTED FACING THE HEATING ELEMENT SO THAT IT GETS BROILED. Ah geez.

The other day Mike and I spent a couple of hours planting laurels around one of our playgrounds at school. Mike and I had a 4:1 planting ratio. For every four laurels he planted I’d have one done. Shoveling is not my forte. I’d put one foot on the shovel to help get the job done, then the other foot and sometimes I’d manage to stay upright, but usually I’d teeter off the shovel. The whole time I was shoveling I was thinking “wow I hope I’m never put on a chain gang or something. I’d never make it.” This was truly my thought process, not “hmm I wonder if there’s a different technique,” or “hmm maybe I should ask for help” or even “hmmm I think I better just walk away from this job.” No I was thinking “Better stay out of jail so I don’t end up digging holes for the rest of my life.” Who thinks these things? And why would a chain gang be digging holes? And if they’re not digging holes what are they doing? Gonna have to google that later.

All I know is this. This evening when I was trying to help one of the toddlers with an eight piece puzzle, I put the elephant’s leg in the wrong spot. I then pretended like I did it on purpose. How low can I stoop?

This week has been a rough week as far as coming to terms with my inability to do things that most people can do by let’s say age six, fine five. As a general rule I like to blame what I can on being a lefty and living in a righty’s world. That might explain my trouble with tools and appliances, but can’t really explain away the broiling situation. I may have to go back to blaming my parents after all.

Perhaps I am one of those creative geniuses that can’t be bothered by the little things in life. Sure she doesn’t know how to tie her shoe, but she can stand on her head and recite the 50 states while painting the ceiling of our local church with nothing but pudding-covered feet. Or granted we had to fly her dad in from Boston to cut her steak for her, but man that girl can throw a mean party. Or wow she still can’t open a bottle of wine with a corkscrew, nor can she open my kid’s thermos at lunch (EVER) but hot dang can she ever put together some senseless blogs.

 

Author’s note: I can actually cut steak and tie shoes. Just sayin’