Thinking Out Loud

By Gerard Meister

My mother was a typical, protective Jewish mother, just not capable of saying anything remotely derogatory about the apple of her eye. (I was the not only the baby, but also the only boy, having two older sisters.) For instance, she never once called me "clumsy" even though over the twenty-four years that I lived at home I left an unending trail of broken cups, glasses, dishes, bric-a-brac and knocked over lamps, tables and etc. Once when she took me to the emergency room after I somehow managed to impale myself on a pencil I was trying to sharpen, the doctor remarked rather jocularly, "this couldn't have been easy to do," my mother shot back: "Mine Gerry is not what you call handy!"

Not being stupid either, I knew early on that I would have to cope with a mechanical aptitude ranging from merely maladroit to virtually non - existent. Eventually, I settled on a technique that has stood me in good stead over the years. I call it the, "I'll take a look at it" school of repairs, which is a really simple and effective system. Say my wife and I are in the car preparing to go out, but the car won't start. Quick as a cat, I leap from the car saying, "don't worry, honey, I'll take a look at it." After opening the hood and peering at the motor for thirty or so seconds I declare, "I'll have to call AAA, honey." (My wife, who's an absolute angel, invariably replies, "Whatever you think is best, dear)."

This system works well around the house, too:

"Darling, there's water leaking out of the refrigerator."

"Don't worry honey, I'll take a look at it."

"Darling, the light is out in the laundry room and it's pitch black in there."

"Don't worry honey, I'll take a look at it. I'll get the ladder."

Here a word about stepladders and me is in order: I can negotiate the first rung up a ladder without a problem. And since we have a 12' foot ceiling in the laundry room, I have to mount the second rung to "take a look at it." And therein lies the rub, because my vertigo kicks in at heights anywhere over eleven, maybe twelve inches. But not to worry, my better half and I developed a system to cope with my vertigo. Once I've ascended to that second rung, Marilyn knows she has to hug me tightly at the knees to keep me from tipping over, which is where we were at when I said,

"Honey, I can't get the plastic cover off the fixture so I can't check the bulbs. I'll have to call the electrician."

"Dear, whatever you think is best," she said, and - without any warning, mind you - released my knees from her bear hug.

"Oops," I said, as I went hurtling off the ladder and into the wall. Fortunately, I was not hurt, but when I crashed into the wall my left elbow hit the light switch a shot. I saw stars, but so must have the switch because the lights came back on and have been working flawlessly ever since!

It's been three years now since I made that repair and I'm watching the laundry room like a hawk. The problem will come when that light finally does fail. After I "take a look at it," do I call that electrician or the Three Stooges? I'll keep you posted.