A Trip to the Hardware Store & Other Calamities E-Book

Barbara Venkataraman

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

This collection of humorous essays explores such quirky topics as disastrous home repairs, ("A Trip to the Hardware Store"), an unfortunate dinner party ("Dinner is Served"), the truth about lazy people ("Lazy Bones"), the weird life of a debt collector ("Your Account is Past Due") and obsessions with gadgets ("Gadget Girl").

You'll also learn how surreal the aging process is ("Where Did the Time Go?"), why you shouldn't judge a person by their job ("Beyond Belief"), and how to complicate simple transactions ("High Finance").

Like the author's first book of essays, I'm Not Talking About You, Of Course..., these essays will give your spirit a lift and leave you smiling.

Leseprobe

A TRIP TO THE HARDWARE STORE & OTHER CALAMITIES

QUIRKY ESSAYS FOR QUIRKY PEOPLE BOOK 2

BARBARA VENKATARAMAN

Copyright (C) 2013 Barbara Venkataraman

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

CONTENTS

Books by Barbara Venkataraman

A Trip To The Hardware Store

Dinner Is Served

Lazy Bones

Your Account Is Past Due

Gadget Girl

Where Did The Time Go?

Beyond Belief

High Finance

Next in the Series

About the Author

BOOKS BY BARBARA VENKATARAMAN

Death by Didgeridoo (Jamie Quinn Cozy Mystery #1)

The Case of the Killer Divorce (Jamie Quinn Cozy Mystery #2)

Peril in the Park (Jamie Quinn Cozy Mystery #3)

Engaged in Danger (Jamie Quinn Cozy Mystery #4)

Jeopardy in July (Jamie Quinn Cozy Mystery #5)

Malice in Miami (Jamie Quinn Cozy Mystery #6)

Jamie Quinn Mysteries Box Set: Books 1-3

Jamie Quinn Mysteries Box Set: Books 4-6

Jamie Quinn Mysteries Box Set: Books 1-6

I'm Not Talking About You, Of Course (Quirky Essays for Quirky People #1)

A Trip to the Hardware Store (Quirky Essays for Quirky People #2)

A Smidge of Crazy (Quirky Essays for Quirky People #3)

Teatime with Mrs. Grammar Person

If You'd Just Listened To Me In The First Place

The Fight for Magicallus

Accidental Activist: Justice for the Groveland Four (Co-Author)

Scary Shorts: Flash Fiction

Holiday Shorts: Flash Fiction

Valentine Shorts: Flash Fiction

Dog Days of Summer Shorts: Flash Fiction

A Year of Shorts: Flash Fiction

A TRIP TO THE HARDWARE STORE

He always gave it his best when it came to home repairs, but my dad was in way over his head. The problem was that he wouldn't admit it. Whether it was a leaky faucet or a blown fuse, somehow he always made it worse. Then the experts would be called in, the plumbers and electricians, the plasterers and sprinkler repairmen. Invariably, the first thing they would say is: "Too bad you didn't call sooner, now I have to charge you double." As a result, nothing could get my Mom out of a chair faster than hearing the jangle of keys and my Dad yelling over his shoulder: "Back soon, I'm going to the hardware store." But she was always too late to stop him.

"Not the hardware store!" became a family joke over the years, one that never got old, but no amount of teasing on our part could ever convince my dad to stop trying. The truth is, he would have been happy with just one success, one amazing home repair that he could show off and say, with practiced nonchalance: "Oh, that? Yeah, I fixed it myself. Took me no time at all."

Like Charlie Brown, my dad kept trying to kick that football only to have the house yank it away at the last minute, just like Lucy. The most perplexing thing was my dad's crazy optimism that this time would be different. Failure was not an option in his mind, but it had become an expectation in ours. We braced ourselves for the worst and, sure enough, one day it arrived…

I awoke that morning to the sound of my sister yelling from inside the shower. Since the shower was just on the other side of the wall, it sounded like she was yelling right in my ear, through a megaphone. It was the worst wake-up call ever, but it turned out she had a good reason for pitching a fit. There was no hot water, not a drop! And with four teenage girls in the house, this was a crisis of epic proportions. This time, we couldn't afford to take any chances. Before my dad knew what hit him, Norman the plumber had been called in to assess the situation.

"Well," Norman said, solemn as a funeral director, "what you have here is a leaky pipe and there's no telling where it's coming from. Could be the size of a pinhole, but that's all it takes. The bottom line is--it's easy to fix, but it's a nightmare to find."

Realizing that someone would have to dig up the floor, (and that we couldn't afford for Norman to be that someone), my mom made a decision. She knew it wouldn't end well but she had no choice. Turning to my dad, she did the unthinkable. She said, "Arthur, you need to go to the hardware store."

This was his last chance to prove himself and my dad was determined to get it right. Luckily, it wasn't complicated stuff. All he had to do was dig up the floor and find the leak so Norman could fix it, then fill the hole with cement. And, if his daughters didn't suffer more than a few hours of substandard hygiene, he knew he would be a hero.

The logical place to start digging for our underground hot spring was the kitchen, where the floor felt warm under our bare feet. My mom was relieved that the leak seemed so easy to find, but I wasn't convinced. Didn't anyone else remember what Norman said?

Armed with a sledge hammer, my dad attacked the floor with real enthusiasm. It was back-breaking work, but he was a man on a mission. Besides, he wanted to finish in time to watch the Dolphins game that afternoon. Wet chunks of concrete were popping up from the floor like gray popcorn and my dad put his glasses on to protect his eyes. The bam bam bam of the sledge hammer was giving me a headache and I had more important things to do, like talk on the phone, and fight with my sisters over the phone, so I went to my room. (Hey kids, in the "old" days, we only had one phone and the six of us had to share it!)

When my dad finally reached the pipe a couple of hours later, we heard him groan. Actually he cursed, but this is a "G" rated story. And, no surprise, the leak wasn't there. Water was flowing INTO the kitchen from somewhere beneath the dining room. My mom started to look concerned about the carpeting. One thing was for sure-- my dad was going to miss the first half of the game.

We were recruited to move the dining room furniture. The only thing we left was the light fixture, hanging in the middle of the room. Under my mom's supervision, my dad gently pulled up the carpeting and padding then continued his path of destruction into the dining room. Thankfully, there was nothing else we could do--except feel sorry for our poor dad. By this time, he had taken off his shirt and sweat was pouring off him. I mean, he hadn't done that much exercise since--well, as long as I'd known him. And certainly not since then either.

Anyway, he kept digging and digging (not really digging, more like smashing) until the entire dining room was a construction site. To give you an idea, there was a giant hole in the floor shaped like Florida: the panhandle was in the kitchen, St. Augustine was near the laundry room and the Keys were starting to encroach into the living room. My dad was so exhausted he was struggling just to lift the sledge hammer. As he hoisted the hammer off the ground and swung it high over his head, we watched in horror as he smashed the overhead light fixture into a million pieces! Showers of glass rained down, most of it lodging in my dad's back. He started bleeding from at least a dozen different places. The room looked like a crime scene! We all rushed to his aid and, after cleaning and bandaging his wounds, we called Norman in for a consultation. Sure enough, Norman spotted the leak through all the debris and mucky water and repaired it in no time.

That hiatus allowed my dad to lick his wounds (I mean that figuratively), replenish his fluids and get dressed because he had to go back to the hardware store (which I assume was no longer his favorite place). I don't know how many bags of cement he had to lug home, but it was a lot, hundreds of pounds' worth. Once he got home, he opened the sliding glass doors to the backyard, removed the screen and pulled the hose into the house so he could mix the cement in a wheelbarrow. The poor guy mixed and shoveled cement for hours. He looked like he was ready to collapse. When he had finally filled the cavernous hole to the top, he smoothed it until it looked like glass. Sorry, painful analogy, he made it as smooth as an ice skating rink after the Zamboni passed over it.

While we were congratulating my dad on his huge accomplishment, Boris (our Bassett Hound who lived outside during the day), made a break for the house. It's not Boris’ fault for thinking he was invited in, the door was wide open. You guessed it, Boris ran right across the fresh cement! My dad unleashed all of his pent-up frustration yelling at Boris to get out and poor Boris became so flustered he peed all over the wet cement. My dad had to redo the whole floor.

In the end, we had a funny story, my dad had a project he could be proud of, and my mom never heard about the hardware store again.