Drill Bits

I was first introduced to the modern nightmare of screws and drill bits as a boy, working on something in my Dad’s workshop in the basement of 27 Central Street.  I was struggling with a screw when he laughingly explained that it was a “Phillips,” and I would need a different screwdriver.  Of course, I wouldn’t swear in front of my father, but I was thinking “what the fuck is this about? And who is this guy Phillips to make my life a living Hell?”

I grudgingly came to accept the existence and omnipresence of Phillips and his fucking screws, although it was frustrating that they hadn’t totally replaced the flathead screws.  Why couldn’t there just be one kind of screw, and one kind of screwdriver?

You all know that it didn’t end there.  When I had the condo on North Avenue, I was doing a DIY project, replacing the previous owner’s slipshod work with my own slipshoddier efforts, when I had to walk to the hardware store three times in forty-five minutes to get different drill bits.  The guy had used three different screws in an area less than a foot square.

So now I know that, besides the traditional Phillips head, there are squares, stars, triangles, crescent moons…  For all I know, there are crucifix heads for Catholics, Buddha-shaped heads, and Mayan pyramid-shaped heads, used only for building special altars for human sacrifice.

This morning, my wife had me de-constructing a section of fencing while she painted the side of the carport.  She tried to deal patiently with my bitching and whining.

“You have to push it to pull it out, honey.”

“I know that; the fucking bit keeps slipping.”

“You’re probably using the wrong one, dear.”

Grrrr…  So she found the right bit for me, which I had to change a few minutes later.  I finished the project, then she sent me inside to wash lettuce and make salad dressing, which I can still do without screwing it up.

What happened to my ideal of life getting simpler as I get older?