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The taming of the screw

“That is NOT how you’re supposed to screw,” husband-head said with complete exasperation the other weekend. “You’re doing it all wrong.”

Who cares about perfect technique, as long as you enjoy the end result, I thought to myself.

“OK, then let’s see if you do it any better,” I huffed.



Husband-head grabbed the screw gun out of my hand and took my place at the wall.

“THIS button makes the screw go into the wall and THIS button takes the screw out of the wall,” he said, as if talking to a child.



He held up the picture and went to work.

Personally, I’m a nail kind of gal myself, but husband-head insisted that we use screws.

We were in the middle of unpacking and decorating our new house, which I believe is legal grounds for divorce in states such as California.

“That doesn’t go there,” husband-head disagreed as I placed a knick-knack on a shelf. “It looks stupid.”

“You look stupid!” I retorted as I stuck my tongue out at him and stormed out of the room.

Instead, I went out into the garage where there were boxes and boxes of STUFF, although it was impossible to tell what was actually in them. My mother had advised me to mark the boxes when we packed, but of course, I didn’t listen and now I had no idea where anything was. I finally located something I could unpack and I lugged the heavy box into the house.

Husband-head, meanwhile, had found something else to do ” namely, a football game on television.

I placed the box on the floor and just looked at him with my mouth wide open.

“WHAT?” he asked, lying on the couch with the remote control in one hand and a beer in the other. “I hung up the picture …”

“We have SO much to do!” I berated him. “How can you possibly just lie on the couch and watch TV while I’m hauling boxes around?”

“Ummm, because it’s Sunday and football is on?” he ventured. “And the Packers are playing?”

Wrong answer.

I picked up the box and marched up the stairs, grunting and groaning and accomplishing my goal of making him feel guilty.

“Moving Nazi,” I heard husband-head mutter under his breath as he got up off the couch.

Back in the garage, we both looked around and peered into the various boxes with amazement at the amount of junk we had collected.

“Where in the world did we get all this stuff?” husband-head asked incredulously. “Were you planning to open a flea market or something?”

“It’s your junk,” I said, pulling out a glow-in-the-dark skeleton that he hangs up every Halloween. “And I do believe this is your cheesy blow-up Santa …”

Husband-head grabbed the box protectively.

“That’s good stuff,” he said firmly. “I need that.”

Then he yanked out a ratty, old, brown stuffed bear, which used to be pink, and was missing its entire face.

“Care to explain this one?” husband-head challenged.

I snatched the bear away.

“That’s my teddy bear from when I was a baby,” I defended. “I’ll get rid of you before I get rid of him …”

We lugged more boxes into the house and tried to find homes for our worldly possessions.

“Where should we hang this picture of my mother?” I asked, holding up the framed portrait.

“In the closet,” husband-head answered without hesitation.

Actually, I was thinking right above the headboard of our bed would be fun …

I found another picture and began nailing it to the wall.

“No,” husband-head said, taking the hammer out of my hand. “I want a screw.”

Heidi Rice is a Rifle correspondent for the Post Independent. Her column runs every Friday. Visit her Web site at http://www.heidirice.com.


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