Curly Wurly Gurly: This is YOUR life…

Dutiful daughter that I am, I visited my parents on Saturday.  En route, mom called my mobile and asked me to pick up replacement wiper blades for her car. 

In normal households, people HIRE professionals to do household tasks or automotive chores.  Growing up, my parents always did EVERYTHING without hiring anyone.  Need to sheetrock the walls?  My dad did it.  Change the oil in your car?  Dad was there.  Put in a new front walkway?  Where’s dad-o?  Paint ever room in the house?  Mom is on the job.  Replace the clutch in the old Honda?  Dad (and I) did it.  Mow THREE acres of lawn? Dad drove the tractor while the sistard and I pushed some broken-down mowers. 

That was all I knew–I didn’t realize that there was a whole world of people who didn’t live like this–my husbandito, for instance.  He came from the land of “CALL THE PEOPLE”.  His parents called people to do everything!  Need to change a lightbulb?  Call the people!  After we became homeowners, he initiated me into the CALL THE PEOPLE club, and I’ve never looked back.

But I digress…back to the windshield wiper blades.  Who would have thought that these two seemingly innocuous pieces of rubber could cause so much strife?!  When my dad was hearty and hale, he would change wiper blades in the blink of an eye.  By day he toiled in an office wearing a suit, by night he was a mechanic, electrician, and jack-of-all trades. 

Sadly, dad-o isn’t in his prime now due to his illness; he wobbles around with a poor sense of balance and shaky hands.  My mother, who is somehow in denial over my father’s inablility to tackle even simple chores despite the fact that she lives with him, insisted he replace the wiper blades.  He and I repaired to his basement workbench. 

After two false starts, a 10 minute break, and 45 minutes of struggling with an assortment of pliers, a hammer, blow torch, and even a vice grip, we managed to thread the metal strips into the rubber and feed them through the wiper blade holders.  My dad, comic that he is, told me to just tie some rags onto the heads of the wiper stalks and we would call it a day.   

In the end, it was a team effort and we managed to get the blades replaced.  My dad cuffed me on the shoulder and told me that he’d taught me well over the years and thanked me for my assitance.  He wobbled back up the stairs to snooze in front of the television. 

As I scrubbed the filth from my hands, I shot my mother a look and told her next time she had another hairbrained scheme, she should make haste and CALL THE PEOPLE.  But strangely, a small part of me enjoyed watching my dad showcase his mechanical abilities again and I felt accomplished and proud that I did something with my own hands.  It was nice not to lay out large sums of money for small tasks.  Could it be that I was questioning the way of the CALL THE PEOPLE? 

And then I glanced down at my destroyed manicure and quickly reaffirmed my CALL THE PEOPLE ways.