It’s just another day of DIY trial and error during the pandemic.
“We need to call the computer guy,” I say.
“The return key doesn’t work.”
“We can fix it. Google it.”
Pray, God, no more DIY. As a result of barring handymen from the house, we have made “innovative” repair choices this year. For instance, the toilet is held together with a hanger, and makes me think of a porcelain mermaid having an illegal abortion. I wear my I’M PRO-CHOICE AND I VOTE button whenever I flush.
Then there is the loose new faucet installed by an actual plumber. I don’t understand the connection between the pipes and the sink, but my husband occasionally crawls in the cupboard to hook up various wires which tighten the faucet. And it works!
I really, really want new carpets, or at least to rip up the old ones and leave the wooden floor bare. The cats have scratched off all the carpet threads by the door in their nightly forays to crash into the bedroom. They have left a little web of white nylon threads. But this repair project will have to wait till AFTER the pandemic, because my husband wants nothing to do with it.
Now he stares at my computer. “Hm, what’s the return button for?”
“Suppose I’m writing poetry and want to start a new line before the margin. Then you hit the return button instead of the space.”
“Oh, are you writing poetry?”
“No, I’m not.” I am indignant that he would think me capable of adding more bad poetry to the horrifying junk I’ve read lately in otherwise brilliant magazines. “I need it for prose, too.”
And then I tell him what I saw the computer guy do once: “He pops the key out and uses a special vacuum cleaner to get the dust out.”
“We’ve got a vacuum cleaner.”
“Maybe it’s not the same kind.”
But he’s already happily watching Youtube videos. Fortunately, the DIY stuff works at least half the time.