Adventures in do-it-myself

I've been in a do-it-myself mood lately. There are times when I wish I could just do stuff myself. It's easier, I can get it done quickly and in a way that makes sense to me, and I can get it done right.

At home, I can absolutely do that. I am, after all, in charge at home. So, that's what I've been doing.

Over the weekend, I changed out some of the hardware in my bathroom. I've had towel bars in there that I've hated ever since I moved into the house. Now, they are gone. And I am very, very happy about that.

Of course, sometimes I have to get creative with these projects. I went from towel bars to towel hooks (actually robe hooks, but I am super pleased with how they turned out as towel hooks). And in one place I rearranged some decorations to cover the non-painted wallpaper that was hiding underneath where the towel bar once was.

Easier than trying to paint the blue loo again, that's for sure.

Tonight's project was to replace another speaker in my car. My dad helped me with the last one. But I watched closely during that whole surgical procedure and I felt confident that I could do it myself this time.

Because conveniently, another speaker decided to start rattling and has been ruining my car-music-listening experience again.

I bought the ridiculously expensive speaker on my way home tonight. Although to be fair, when I called to make sure they had a speaker for me, the guy agreed that the speaker was ridiculously overpriced and he knocked about $30 off the price when I told him what I paid for the other one I bought a few months ago.

Anyway, got the speaker home, got into some speaker-changing clothes, got some tools. Good to go.

Then I realized that I was about to take the cover off of my car door and I had a moment of thinking that maybe I shouldn't do this myself . . .

Nah. I watched my dad do it. What could go wrong?

Taking the cover off really isn't that hard. And actually, it's a little scary to think how easy the cover comes off. Is that safe???

I pulled out the busted speaker from the guts of the door and I put in the new one. I even turned on the radio to check and make sure it worked before I put the door back together. You know, like a professional would do.

Speaker worked. Check!

Then I plugged things in (door lock switch thingy, electric mirror mover thingy, door handle opener thingy), and I put the cover back on the door. But before I put in the two screws that hold the whole thing together (yes, only TWO screws), I decided to check and make sure everything was working as well as my new speaker was working.

Yes, I was totally rocking out to my new speaker while I put the door back together.

Mirrors? Check.
Door unlock? Check.
Door lock? Uh..... not so much.

Funny, the switcher thingy would unlock the doors, but not so much lock the doors. Which, in case you were wondering, was not the case before I took the door apart.

Not good.

So, I took the door apart again. I unhooked everything. I re-hooked everything.

Still no-go on the door locking.

I tried the other door to make sure that the locking thingy was at least working somewhere in the car. Um . . . now that one isn't working either. How is that even possible??? I didn't touch that door.

Ok. There is only one thing that hooks into the door unlocking mechanism. One would think that since there is only one hook-up, if the unlocking was working, the locking would also work. So . . . what do I do now? The extent of my knowledge of how cars work is limited to . . . pretty much taking the door apart just now.

Oh, and changing out windshield wiper blades. I'm really good at that.

Then it hit me: OWNER'S MANUAL

I grabbed the owner's manual to troubleshoot the following: automatic door locker mechanism thingy not working after taking door apart, even though automatic UNlocking seems to work just fine.

I found the answer in the book under . . . Locks.

Apparently when the key is in the ignition and the car door is open, you can't lock the car. As I looked around, I realized that was my situation.

Keys were in the ignition so that I could rock out to my new speaker, and the door was open because you can't really take it apart with it closed.

Ok, so . . . all is well. And I proceeded to put the door back together again.

Then, one more time before putting the two screws back in the door, I checked everything to make sure it was working.

Door unlock? Check.
Door LOCK? Check. (I took the keys out of the ignition)
Mirrors? Uh . . . . nope.

Ok, now the electric mirrors aren't doing what they are supposed to do. I turned the car back on. Still nothing.

I took the door apart again. I unplugged and replugged everything again. I tested everything. Everything worked.

I put the door together again.

Success!

New speaker. Everything works. I only scratched the very bottom of the door where no one can see.

And I only have two bloody fingers.

Totally worth it. And I'm pretty much an expert now on taking my car doors off.

C.T.

Dear Gary Busey,

I just have so many questions about your random Oscar red carpet shenanigans last night. I almost don't know where to begin.

I think the biggest question on everyone's mind is: Why were you even there?

I mean, I will always be fond of your performance in the made-for-tv-movie Hider in the House. Your portrayal of that creepy man that lived in the attic of that family's house, but pretended to be their "neighbor from down the street" is what makes me sometimes wonder if you are, in fact, currently living in my attic right now.


I hear a noise. I automatically assume it's you peering down at me from my attic. Don't judge me. You were very convincing.

But, even being a convincing attic creep, I'm not sure the glory of that role carries over from 1989 to the red carpet here in 2008.

And then last night, I see you assaulting Jennifer Garner on the red carpet. And I wondered if you were trying to convince her that you aren't actually living in her house, either. But just stalking her and her small child in public places when everyone is watching you on TV.

Finally, and in conclusion, I have to ask why the myspace page.


I mean, it's like your lurking there, too. In myspace's attic.

If you are living in my attic, I just ask that you don't use my shower or sleep in my bed or eat all of my food while I'm gone to work during the day. Like you do in the movie.

As long as I don't ever hear or see you, you can stay.

C.T.

Clown Phobia?

I came across this helpful resource today.

If you suffer from clown phobia, please do not suffer in silence. There is a trusted, effective treatment for Clown Phobia.

If you have a very intense fear of clowns and you are short on time, there is a one-hour VIP session that could be just what you need.

However, this session is done over the phone. So if you also have a phone phobia, you might first need trusted, effective treatment for phone phobia.

Telephonophobia Coulrophobia is a rare, yet distressing condition that can paralyze you in the presence of phones and clowns.

But there is no need to resign yourself to living with this fear.

Overcome your Phone Phobia. Call these people for help today.

Then call them again about the clowns.


C.T.

It's funny cuz it's true.

I'm white trash everyday for lunch. And proud of it.

C.T.

A major lifestyle change

I made a major lifestyle change this weekend. Seriously, this is really big.

For years, and years, I've had a Sunday morning tradition that has become the cornerstone of my sanity throughout the rest of the week.

I roll out of bed, I get my coffee started, I go get a Sunday paper, then I come home and sit in my chair while I read the paper and drink my coffee.

It's a place and time of refuge.

This all began for me in the days of yore. It used to be, in the days of yore, that you couldn't get a subscription to the newspaper for only a Sunday paper. You had to get the whole weekend. And since I don't care about the newspaper except on Sunday, and I don't care to pay for more papers than I will actually read, I began my weekly routine of going to the gas station to get my paper each Sunday.

I totally beat the system, y'all.

So far this year, for a variety of reasons, I have not been able to keep my routine going consistently each Sunday. It could be part of why my 2008 is off to a funky start, causing me to feel on-edge lately. I haven't had my regular time or place of refuge like I need it.

A few weeks ago I was finally able to get back to my routine, but my gas station friend wasn't there. There was a different guy there in his place to sell me my paper. I thought maybe he had the week off, which is odd since he never seems to go on vacation.

Part of the lure of my Sunday morning routine is that minute or so of chit-chat to check in with my gas station boyfriend. With someone new there, it was all very foreign and scary.

He wasn't there today, either. So I fear the new guy is a permanent replacement. I can only assume that since I missed a few weeks, my gas station boyfriend missed me so much that he could no longer bring himself to work there anymore.

This personal touch was really my main reason to make the trip to the gas station each week to get my paper. Since, I've discovered in recent weeks, you can now get a Sunday-only subscription to the paper. People would say, "Hey, Tyrant. Why do you go to the gas station for your paper each Sunday? You know you can get that delivered to your house, right? (Idiot)."

And I would say, yes. I know. But it's my routine. And I like saying hi to my gas station boyfriend each week.

But, since it appears he has left me, I can consider us broken up. And I have given myself permission to also break up with my routine.

Last night, I ordered a Sunday-only subscription to the newspaper. Which means starting next week, the paper will come to me.

I can wander outside in my pjs and slippers to get my paper, y'all. Just like all of the other old people on my street (some of whom forget that yes, I can see you through my front window in your tighty-whities while you wander down the driveway to get your paper even though you seem to think that you are invisible out in broad daylight on a Sunday morning).

Yep, I'm one step closer to being one of those old people.

C.T.

Two Lean Pockets

I eat a Lean Pocket for lunch just about every day that I'm at work.

I tend to get stuck on one thing for awhile (ok, a really long time). Then one day I get sick of whatever I've been stuck on, and I have to find something else. Usually there is a brief period of mourning, followed by intense and deep hunger, then stumbling through sandwiches or soups or salads until I find something that can take the place of what I've just left behind . . .

Anyway, quite frankly, whoever thought a Lean Pocket should be enough to fill you up for lunch is pretty much an idiot. Yet, I eat one everyday. Just one. Because one pocket is a serving and that's proper and appropriate.

However, by lunch-thirty I am usually starving.

Sometimes I remember to bring a snack, and then I'm fine. But on the days that I don't remember a snack, and no one can hook me up any food (seriously, I'll take, like, that cracker that's been stuck in the back of your drawer since the day you moved into that cube), I'm hurting for the rest of the afternoon until I can get home and eat more food than a skinny girl should really eat for dinner.

So today, I went for it. I can't take the hunger anymore.

I ate two Lean Pockets for lunch.

At first, I was worried that two pockets cancels out the "lean".

But then the satisfaction of being almost full after I ate them, and then lasting all the way until 4:00 without becoming weak with hunger made me not care if eating two pockets actually sextuples the fat or calories or whatever they pack inside a pocket.

I'm not sure that I will be able to afford a two-pocket-a-day habit.

But I'm not sure the hunger inside me will let me go back to just one pocket.

C.T.

It's the same.

I'm sitting here on my couch watching Herbie Hancock and some other piano dude furiously and fantastically duel it out on Rhapsody in Blue at the Grammys . . . and this is actually the thought I just had:

I've played that.

Yeah, cuz it's the same.

Me playing it. Herbie Hancock playing it.

Exactly the same.

It's only because I was busy sleeping today that they called Herbie in to cover for me.

C.T.

I'm concerned.

I'm concerned that one day Miley Montana Ray Cyrus will grow up and not know who she is.

Is she Hannah?
Is she Miley?
Who is Hannah?
Who is Miley?

Does anybody know? Will anyone be able to help her figure out where Miley ends and where Hannah begins?

And when we stop caring about Hannah Montana, what will be next for Miley Montana Ray Cyrus? Will she be able to find another identity?

One day, will we see an E! True Hollywood Story about 40-yr-old Miley Hannah Ray Cyrus and her search for self that lands her in rehab due to her addiction to pixie sticks and Bubble Yum, followed by a re-emergence of Hannah/Miley 2.0, now a nun in a Scandinavian convent high on a hill, helping young orphans wear clothes made out of curtains?

Probably so.

And what will the children do without Hannah/Miley? One day, before her pixie sticks bender at the age of 40, the children of the world will figure out that she is old and it's not cool to have a Hannah Montana lunch box anymore, and they will not know what to do to survive.

There will be a void that can only be filled by another New Kids On The Block reunion.

I'm just very concerned for the youth of America.

C.T.

Did you vote today?

No, not in a Super Tuesday primary election.

It's something much more important that will shape the lives of Texans everywhere for years to come.

Vote for a new Texas state License Plate.

If you pick the ugly ones and I have to drive around with a stupid license plate starting next year . . . there will be blood.

C.T.

To the people who ride the elevator to the 2nd floor:

Really?

It takes as long to wait for the elevator, wait for the doors to open, wait for the people to get out before you can get in, push "2", wait for the doors to close, then get out one floor up . . . as it would to walk up that one flight of stairs to the second floor.

Plus it wastes my time waiting on you to do all of that before I get to my floor.

And I know you ride that elevator back down one floor, too.

For the time I spend waiting on you to get to where I need be, I might as well walk up and down four flights of stairs.

Or move to your floor.

C.T.