Friday, October 26, 2012

I'll be damned if he didn't bring me a screwdriver


My son unscrewed a 1/4" jack input from my husband's Sovtek amp. Again. Beren is usually good at listening, except when he is tired and when he is not good at listening. We have asked him a few times to not unscrew the input on the amp.

The first time this happened we thought we would have to dismantle the whole amp. My husband shook the amp and applied pliers, with our son's help, of course. Papa Bear was already frustrated and Little Bear was very "hands on." It was annoying to listen to them.

Being a woman, wife, mother, and a Mackow, I am not genetically, physically, or psychologically able to mind my own business. I am a bossy expert who hate to see others upset or angry. Did I mention that I know a better way to approach the situation?

"Here, let me try," I said. I turned the amp on its side and fumbled with the pliers. Beren dove in to help. Every time I pushed the nut into place, the jack slid back into the amp.

After a few hopeless minutes during which I considered tossing the amp out the closed window, I became very determined to fix this piece f**king junk. With my son's help.

I got a box cutter. I pushed the blade out. Beren was riveted. I grabbed the input jack with the pliers and used the blade to hold the jack by the threading. The bolt went on.

I was very proud to be boss of this piece f**king junk.

I turned to Beren, "We fixed it. Beren, we fixed the amp with tools. Please never touch this again."

Beren nodded gravely.

So, last night Beren unscrewed the input jack, again, and Jared said, "No no, Beren, I asked you not to touch this."


I walked into the room and my husband disappeared. I sighed and looked for the pliers.


In my college days, I found my car had a flat in my Rutgers dorm parking lot. I did what most girls would do. I called my Dad. My Mom answered, and said, "Call your boyfriend." So, I did. Then I became the bossy expert - I am on Douglass, the woman's campus, after all. Get your sh*t together and change this tire, Rachel. And so, I changed a tire for the first time. My boyfriend rode up on his bike as I was putting away the jack.

"Leave that out," he said.

"It's done. I changed it."

I later called my parents, very proud. My mother said, "Never tell your boyfriend. He will never change a tire for you once he knows you can."

"He already knows, Mom. He came as I was finishing."

She sighed, "He'll never change a tire for you."

Jared will never fix the amp jack again, I thought. As I fiddled with the input jack and pliers, my son stepped closer to help.

"Beren, go get Momma a screwdriver, please," I said to my son.

I heard him open the tool drawer and rummage. He is just tall enough to stand on the very tips of his toes and reach inside. It is a drawer he likes very much.

He padded back into the room, smiling, and holding, I'll be damned, a screwdriver.



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