Haidhuru

See, I had to change my locks this weekend. I mean, I had to change them a looong time ago, but between Hugh Masekela concerts and other more important purchases, I’d put it off until someone gave me a Home Depot gift certificate. So since I needed to get a new pump for the house and my gift cert was for like $100, I decided to get a Kwikset deadbolt and lock set (“for the Ultimate Security!”) all for the low, low price of $24.59.

Sidebar one:
Kwanza Home Depot is just… wrong. Like you just cannot go and buy a pump. There are like 45,678,654 varieties of the damn thing. As for things like a tool kit? Forget it. A whole fucking aisle of bits for a screwdriver. Sheeeeiiittt!!! And when you ask a Home Depot person “where are the sump pumps?” He points cheerfully at the some looong ass aisle and says “Plumbing Aisle”. Yes, a whole aisle dedicated to plumbing *sighing again*

I’m never going back to Home Depot. Ever.

So anyway, I come home, start to unpack my new (shiny!) locks, cut my finger in the process (note to self- point the knife AWAY from self when cutting indestructible plastic cover), look at the instructions- they’re written in Chenglish “As for lock in straight, make sure not to jamb unnecessary or too lose unless number 4 is scrupulously beveled”

Huh????

I rub my head against instructions, pray for osmosis. And begin.

12:50: Unscrew the old locks,
12.51: Doorknob on the other side of the door falls on flip-flop shod foot
12.51- 12.58: Cuss under breath.
1.15: Start fiddling with the gadgets. (Operative word- fiddling.)
1.15-3.25: Start the process of aligning three holes- one for the middle thingie that has the door lock mechanism that allows you to turn the door knob, and the other two for some long ass screws that are behaving like (sober) virgins on an arranged marriage wedding night. Like those suckas refused to allow anything in. At first I was gentle, middle hole first, slot in the first screw in the left hole, trying to slot in the second screw to the right (which then un-aligns the first. Door knob on the other side of the door falls. On my foot. Again.
3.30-4.30: Rinse, wash, repeat.
4.35: I took matters into my own hand and, you know how the GSU cops used to ask “Unafungua, ama tunaingia?” (“Are you opening the door, or are we coming in?), I stopped begging the doors and pushed the damn things in. And what do you know? That whole “Mwenye nguvu mpishe”/ “Might is right” campaign tested well with that lock demographic!!! So, I get my electric screwdriver— just to ensure that everything is screwed in nice and tight. Dust my hands, brew some coffee, test the door again and then look at the door and start cussing again.

See, in my infinite wisdom, I had put the side of the locks that with the screws on the outside!!!! Plus, the way that these damn things work, is that you only need to unscrew one side before the lock just falls out (or on your feet if you’re wearing flip flops as I learnt). The cussing!!!! In Luhya!!! Who’da thunk I knew me some Lunjĩ? Go figure… So now I’m pissed and frustrated. But!! My new motto is to finish everything I start (it “builds character” according to Essence Magazine). So I have a Woosa moment, chill out and start all over again.

I beg, I plead, I cajole— it works!!!!! This time it only takes 30 minutes (Never ever trust a home depot guy who tells you that a job is “pretty straightforward”. Trust me, it’s not).

6.00: So I finish, test the doors gingerly, it looks like it’s working fine. So I now start clearing up all the crap and I find like 8 screws, a ka-thing (that didn’t even make a cameo in the gaddamn manual!!), something else that looks important and was in the manual and I now I’m in the full Bantu-Nilotic and Cushitic cuss mode!!!

I swear to one God I was this close to tears *putting pointing finger and thumb really close together to show just how close to tears I was*. But then I rationalize that if my door can close and open, then those thingamabobs are just extras no? Wheya? My A/C kicks in and Paragasha! and ping’iriyau! Ensues. The Gaddamn frigging k*ma nina na matako yao mwana wa fisi locks fall on the damn floor.

6.16: I sit on the floor next to my fallen locks, look at them and just feel- sad.

Cue music: “Sometimes I feel like a motherless child”

Now, jamaa is out of town. In Virginia— not the part of Va. that you take the orange line to. Noooooooo! The part of Va. that you take day-trips (with an over night bag just in case) to. So I hit my trusty cellie and go down the list.

My brother? Out of town.
My brother from another mother (thanks d® for this expression, I love it!): Can’t be raised.
All of my male friends: Mteja like a muthaf*cka.
Not.one.single.one.of.them.

*sigh*

So I rig up this ‘alarm’ a contraption of tin cans and chairs and self-raising flour (don’t ask— I thought it was kinda clever at the time). Thing is, it might stop an intruder for, I don’t know, no time! but it might prevent me from coming back in the house. So, I give up and call jamaa and conversation was soooo cringe-worthy, I’m shy just re-playing (but apparently not too shy to blog about it

First, I was using that voice that drives me up the wall- you know— spoilt 16 year old meets terrible-twos infant meets pouty child-woman voice. Then secondly, then the conversation was just — wrong….

Muts: “Baby… you need to come and fix my door cause I’ve been trying to fix it but it won’t work and now it’s dark and I’m tired and it fell on my foot and”
Him: Hey, you’re breaking up—what’s that?
Me: My door— it won’t work
Him: Huh? Like it won’t lock properly, it’s warped? What?
Me: No, I tried to put new locks but they keep falling off kwanza it fell on my foot and
Him: (laughing) I thought you were gonna wait for me to fix it? You had to go ahead and just do it eh?
Me: Don’t laugh! It’s not funny!!!
Him: (laughing and sighing) OK— so can you put back the old one until I make my way back tomorrow and ..
Me: (*almost stamping my foot* )Urrrnnhhhggghhh (aka Tasmanian Devil speak) Don’t say that! I’ve tried and, and, and…. *sniveling*
Him: Are you crying?
Me: Noooooooboooooo hooooo hoooo

(I did say at the beginning that I was ashamed of myself right?)

Him: Sigh. All right, I’ll see what I can do
Me: Wipe away semi-crocodile tears (what do you call false false tears anyway? Like you’re not crying- but you’re also NOT not crying…pleather pcroc tears?)

So anyway, after dabbing some (seriously little) moisture from my eyes, I figure out that I’d better get the hell out of that house as now I’m mad at the world. I’m pissed off at the woman who gave me a visa at the American Embassy- — ‘cause otherwise I’d still be home, happy and would not have to deal with this BS, I’m pissed off at the woman who approved my home mortgage loan as if she’d turned me down, I’d not be dealing with this mess, I’m pissed off at my Arts and Craft primary school teacher who after seeing my dove tail, mortise and tenon joints gave me falsely high expectations of my aptitude with tools…you get the drift…

So I go off to just waste time until it’s time to come home and bemoan my fate. Five (short) hours later after a pint and such with my girl, I go home and I see jamaa’s car parked outside. Whoopdeedo! But wait! Do mine eyes deceive me? Is my door not fixed? I walk in, he’s snoring on the couch. I stroke his head and whisper “Hi baby!” Nothing. Rub his head vigorously and semi-yell “[Man’s name here], wake up!” Nothing. I jab him. Hard. “Yo! You sleeping?”. He wakes up, throws me a look and asks whatsup… Riggghhhtt. “It’s almost midnight and I was hoping you’d fix the door before we slept”…

Do you know, half asleep, he got up, looked at the directions, crumpled and tossed them, picked out a few screws, shook something twice, yawned and did 5 hand-twists of the Phillips screwdriver, yawned, asked me for a key. Yawned, tested locks from inside. Tested outside. Still not fully awake, yawned and told me to test them, and yawning, went back to sleep.

Sigh.

Where have all the good men gone?

To Virginia for the weekend apparently. Like, sometimes, yeah, men just fucking rock.