I had a screw pop out of my glasses last night. I really, really hate when that happens and I am also quite baffled as to why it happens. Sometimes I think I might have some sort of latent Uri Geller like paranormal abilities. When I am sitting in my house thinking deep thoughts, my brainpowers somehow cause small metal objects around me to turn. In particular the screws in my glasses that holds the lens in place. Probably because they are so close to my brain.
So last night I was walking across the house when it looked like the floor dropped out about four feet under me. I staggered a moment, baffled, until I realized the lens of my glasses had popped out. Great. I found the lens but the screw had vanished from the material plane. So I decided to do what I could to repair it. At first I thought I would steal a screw form my sunglasses for the time being. Turns out the screw did not fit, and then for the life of me I could not get that screw back IN to the sunglasses. I sat at my table for an hour cursing and swearing as I tried to manipulate that tiny object. Finally I gave up in disgust.
Then I stole a screw from the arm of the glasses. This fit and I was able to put the lens back in place, but not I was missing an arm to hold it on my face. I combed the house trying to find a screw small enough to fit. Finally In annoyance I wound a small strand of wire through the screw hole. This worked and held the arm in place, albeit the glasses were crooked. I spent the rest of the evening wearing them and they ended up giving me a roaring headache. I was dreading wearing them today when I opened my sock drawer and lo and behold was three packages of contact lens I had yet to open. Saved!
It was hot over the weekend. No surprise there. On Sunday I got the last load of bathroom crap out. There are still a few small things that need to be ripped out, but they are small enough to go into garbage cans. I smashed up the old cast iron tub with a big metal pole. That was sort of fun, then off to the dump. The dump was particularly foul over the weekend. It smelled horrid... rotting, like someone had just dumped off a few garbage bags full of dead babies that were bloating up in the sun. I quickly emptied out my truck and spend away. No more dump for a little while.
I still have not heard back from the horror night's lady. It's starting to annoy me. I keep calling her number but all I get is her answering machine. I do not know when I am supposed to show up for orientation or what.
I forgot to put my meat in the crock pot this morning. Damn it.
2026 Update
Setting the dial for August 2006, where Ed's brain is apparently strong enough to unscrew his own eyewear.
Ah, 2006. A time when a man with a loose screw in his glasses had to sit at a table for an hour cursing, because there was no 'glasses repair kit in one hour' delivery. You actually had to improvise with wire. And when the horror night lady didn't call back, you just kept calling her answering machine, leaving who knows how many increasingly annoyed beeps. Now we'd just text her a meme. The dump smelled like rotting things and you hauled your own cast iron tub with a pole; now you hire a hauling service and the dump is a 'transfer station' with questionable air fresheners. Also you forgot the crock pot meat, and I feel that on a spiritual level, except today I'd photograph it for social media before remembering. The world has become softer, more convenient, and far more tracked. Ed's brain-powered screw loosening, though? That remains undefeated. You had three unopened boxes of contacts in your sock drawer—because apparently 2006 was a time of hoarding optical supplies—and you only remembered them after a night of crooked glasses and a roaring headache. I'd say that's a metaphor for the entire era: too stubborn to check the drawer until absolutely necessary.
“2006 Ed, when the screw from your sunglasses didn't fit, did it cross your mind that you were one 'I'll just order a repair kit' click away from solving this, or was the hour of cursing part of the romance of the analog age?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2006 Ed: Well, Beelzebubba, I'm not sure I even knew a repair kit existed, to be honest. I mean, sure, the glasses shop probably sells little screwdrivers and spare screws, but clicking my fingers and having one show up at the door? That's not really how things work around here. I'd have to drive to the mall, track down the Sunglass Hut or wherever, and stand there feeling like a moron while some kid with a ponytail hands me a bag of mystery parts. That's an afternoon, not a click. So no, I didn't think about that. I just sat at my table for an hour poking at that screw with a butter knife, my cat watching me like I was a certified fool. Which I was. And honestly, there's something stupidly satisfying about fixing it with a strand of wire and ending up crooked—like a badge of honor. A headache too, sure. But romance? I'd call it stubbornness. I wasn't having a romantic moment, I was cursing a three-millimeter screw and wondering if I should just give up and become a hermit with a magnifying glass. But sure, call it romance. That's nicer than saying I'm too cheap and too proud to go ask the optician.
