Historically, I am really good at pissing in the dark. When I was infested with child, I would stumble into the bathroom at 3AM each night with my eyes closed and still manage to find the toilet. I wasn’t even awake, I don’t think. But in a bold break with tradition, I just ripped up my right shift key and took the waffle bit out from under it, rather than learn to shift with my left pinky finger. I mean, that was going OK, but I am older and just not adaptable anymore. Take me out back and shoot me.
My dad said that bit about the candle when we were on the phone a few weeks ago, and that sentiment is of course fraught with hilarity given my genetic background of half-assed solutions. My first phrase was probably “jury rig.” If you ever say “jerry-rig” to me, I will cut you. It’s just not right. There was some great meaning to what mine papa was saying, but I chose to ignore it and have a “Family Guy”-style mental diversion picturing Peter Griffin decked out in a periwig like Elton John, singing about pissing up a rope on a candle in the wind.
Recently, Mr. H overheard the following exchange at work and was trying to impart how “Family Guy” it was.
“So this lady who’s on maternity leave brings her baby in to show it off, and all the women are all ‘Ahhhhhhh, baby, ahhhhhh!’ and then they leave, and these two biddies on the other side of wall from me are quiet for a minute. And then one says ‘He’s all boy.’ And the other one says ‘Oh, yeah.'”
And I said “And then the second one took a sip of coffee? And it there was a really awkward long silence as they both looked at each other?”
“Yes!” he said. “Exactly.”
I am so glad we have the medium of television so as to better understand each other.
Jury-rigged but jerry-built, eh?