It all started with the best of intentions. My sister had a small, ornate, antique table with a broken leg, and since she knew I fooled around with old furniture, asked if I could fix it. “Oh sure, I can,” I said. “Why don’t you let me take it home?” Looking back, this is a prime example of me engaging my mouth without using my brain.
I may think of myself a handyman, but that’s a stretch. The problem with me fixing anything is that I have to overcome my ineptness as a home repairman that I inherited from my father. My mother used to say if she saw my dad with a screwdriver in his hand, she stopped what she was doing and followed him because she knew he was about to tear something up. Carol’s father, known for his acerbic dry wit, once said to me when I walked in his house, “Come on in, Joe. Make yourself at home – break something.”
And even when I somehow manage to make an effective repair on something, my reputation still follows me. After completing a nice job on the deck at our little place on the lake, Carol said to me, “Wow, that looks so good I can’t believe you did it.”
Almost all of my friends are aware of my shortcomings. So, when I help any of them with a project, I became the gopher. You know – go for the screwdriver, go for some extra nails, go for a bottle of water. It’s kind of emasculating. And knowing all this, I still agreed to attempt a repair job on an antique table.
Once I got the table home, I took it straight to the basement and flipped it upside down on my work bench. I began to determine how to best reattach the leg by trial and error. After carefully gluing and clamping it just so, I drilled a hole and installed a new screw. And with that, it was done. The table leg fit flush against the table. I looked closely at the finished job. “Hey, that’s nice work,” I thought to myself smugly. “Who says I’m not a handyman?” There was nothing left to do now but let the glue set overnight, then take the clamps off and return the table in triumph to my sister.
The next morning could not get there fast enough. I felt like a kid on Christmas morning as I bounded down the basement stairs. Then I rounded the corner and saw it on my work bench – my personal stocking full of coal hanging from the mantle. I had attached the leg upside down! I ran over to the table, removed the clamps and just stared in disbelief. It was true. Three legs were pointing toward the ground and one toward the sky. It looked like some kind of Russian communication satellite. I began cursing loudly, calling myself names I would never let anyone else call me.
Panic set in. I quickly took out the screw, hoping I could undo my screw up. No chance. The glue and clamps had done their job.
At this point I made a second, and even worse decision. I brought it upstairs for my wife to examine. I still don’t know why – perhaps I wanted a soothing word, some sympathy or even some bad advice. I got none of that. She took one look and began laughing hysterically. And I mean laughing. This was not a chuckle or a giggle – she was unable to talk or take a breath. After about 10 minutes of laughing and pointing, she grabbed her phone and took three quick photographs before I could stop her. Within seconds, she had not only sent them to several of her friends, but also to my sister, with a caption that said, “Joe fixed your table, kind of.” It’s so nice to have a loving, caring wife. When will I ever learn?
Properly humiliated, I took my wooden abomination back to the basement and began tapping – well, beating, on the upside-down leg with a rubber hammer. My goal was to break the glue’s bond, but I’m sure I was also taking out some frustration as well. After about 10 minutes I felt a wiggle. There was hope! A few moments later, the table leg popped cleanly off. It was a Sunday morning miracle! Without hesitation, I resanded both surfaces, reapplied glue and put in the screw. Everything fit perfectly, snugly. Proudly, I flipped the table upright, and to my delight, not only did all four legs touch the floor, but the top was also level! Despite the self-inflicted setbacks and a wicked wife, Handyman had finally prevailed.
But I doubt my wife will take any pictures of the table now, because it’s properly fixed.
And that ain’t funny.
Joe Hobby is a barbecue-loving comedian from Alabama who wrote for Jay Leno for many years. Find more of Joe’s stories on his blog: www.mylifeasahobby.blogspot.com. Follow him on Facebook at Joe Hobby Comedian-Writer.
