There are a lot of things I’ve learned to fix creatively over the years. I am an expert at reviving stuffed animals that have lost an eye, become strangled by their own silk bows, or suffered from disemboweled stuffing at the hands of a family pet. I have mastered the art of taming doll hair that has been doused in the bathtub and left to dry upside down. I even know when and in what quantities to apply Superglue, Krazy Glue, or Gorilla Glue to accomplish the desired bond on a piece of ten-cent jewelry or a wayward post-race pinewood derby car. I even know which band-aids completely and magically take pain away in any given circumstance, and whether a kiss is warranted as part of the remedy. (Hint: it is ALWAYS warranted.)
But now, I consider myself an official, bona fide fix-it woman.
Most projects I leave to Husband. It’s fun to make him the hero, because let’s face it – guys are built for this kind of thing. They just love figuring it out, working on it, and being the savior. And I love not working on it in exchange for some heartfelt thankyous. So it all “works out” just great.
Except that plan falls through when your hero is on loan somewhere else.
So here I am, standing in Sweet Pea’s room, listening to her beg and plead to fix Butterscotch, the obnoxiously life-sized practically breathing certainly creepy toy horse, whose tail has been ninja-chopped off at the evil hands of Dr. Killjoy, the greatest outlaw in the West, AKA “The Preschooler.” The problem is, I have no idea how I’m going to do this. I’ll spare you the details, but it involves lots of plastic that will NOT succumb to any of the regular glue options, which is constantly being infiltrated by frizzy fake horse hair that binds to everything it shouldn’t, including my fingers.
As I apply yet another kind of glue with surgical precision, wondering whether any of the compounds are about to combine to form the ingredients for a homemade bomb, I stop. It’s silent. Sweet Pea is looking on like a mother watching a doctor perform brain surgery on her only child. I look around for the hidden camera. Wanna know what I see?
A big ass, that’s what. I look at this ridiculous horse, and how I’m so gingerly attempting to keep the fuzz from its synthetic coat out of the globs of Super Glue/Krazy Glue/Epoxy/Gorilla Glue, and I realize I’m painting a horse’s butt, one that I’m thinking we should send off to the glue factory - with glue. Oh, the irony! I mean really, is this a hero’s work? Is this how a savior is defined?
So of course, I laugh, and cannot continue, because now my fingers are permanently stuck. I make Sweet Pea take a picture. I mean really, when you’re faced with the reality that your finger is bonded to a fake horse’s butthole, what else can you do?
And that’s your Friday entertainment for the day. It’s crass and proves that I’m only marginally more mature than The Preschooler. But it’s Friday for crying out loud. Consider it your brain’s “casual attire” for the day.
Happy weekend, everyone. Utilize your heroes!