Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Why Can't Girls Throw???

"Ahh, its a small roof. Not even very high. How hard can it possibly be to re-roof it?" That was my comment when the wife suggested we hire someone to replace it about 5 years ago. My house was built in 1958, the same year that my wife was created. Both creations of that year have dogged me relentlessly ever since. Judging from condition of the cracked, wrinkled shingles on the roof I thank God that intervening years have not had nearly such a substantial effect on my spouse! However, the way I am feeling tonight I think they both might be due for replacement.) The roof is steep, 10 inches of rise for every foot of run. Five years ago when the wife suggested having it replaced a roofer estimated it would cost about $8,000. My response was typically Alaskan, laugh at the outrageous price gouging, tack a blue tarp over the leaking spot, and promise the wife I would fix it myself. Well the sun has finally rotted the tarp and the wife is again bugging me to honor my promise.


I managed to diddle away most of this gorgeous summer fishing, hiking, canoeing and generally doing important things but winter is coming any day so I guess is time to pay the piper. I started the job about a week ago with help from my eldest son, Jeremiah, and his fiend, Justin. Having more common sense than normal, we tore off only the shingles on the north side of the house, leaving the south side untouched in case winter arrives early. The work was more grueling than any of us anticipated. The steep slope requires us to do everything while roped into climbing harnesses since it is impossible to even stand on the slippery slope without the aid of a rope. Such constraints even make scratching your ass or picking your nose a major operation, let alone carrying around, squaring up and screwing in a 15 foot piece of sheet metal. Luckily Justin is part gorrila so we made pretty good progress last weekend. Unfortunately Jeremiah left to go back to work up north early this morning so I am on my own this evening.

Returning home from a day at the office filled with meetings, financial BS and the general frustrations of modern office work,I feel invigorated at the thought of getting back to some real life physical labor that will make a difference in whether or not I stay warm and dry during the coming winter months. I had spent my lunch hour researching various rock-climbing devices which might make my roofing job easier and was anxious to try them out after I had satisfied my growling stomach. Arriving at home I find my wife passed out on the couch with headache after her hard day tending to the needs of juvenile delliquent middle schoolers. A bit peeved over having no diner to satisfy my growling stomach I change into my grubby clothes and prepare for an evening of work on the roof. I plan to use a new angle measuring gizzmo purchased on my lunch hour to measure the angle of cut I need to make on the sheet metal coming into a valley between a dormer roof and the main roof. We had been making these cuts by using a tape measure up to this point, usually with rather dismal results. I figure that if the new method works well I will cut a template and thus make the job considerably easier. I carefully rope myself in using my newly purchased climbing descender and climb to the ridge top. I quickly realize that carrying my new angle measurer device while pulling myself up the rope is difficult so I resort to holding it in my teeth while I make the ascent. Once in position I whip out my new gizzmo to measure the angle. I discover that the thing is really too small to use properly but do my best to get as good a reading of the angle as possible. I put the gizzmo back in my mouth and drag myself back up over the ridge-top, back down the other side, down the ladder and to my saw horses. I begin to pick out an appropriately sized piece of roofing metal and again am overcome with unusual common sense and decide to make the cut using a piece of scrap material instead. Installing my new metal cutting blade in my circular saw I begin making the cut. Sparks fly into the evening air but the saw does a pretty good job of hacking its way through the sheet metal. Once again I make my way up the ladder, up the rope, to the ridge-top and down the other side, this time lugging a razor sharp piece of sheet metal along with with me. To my dismay I find that my test piece is cut at a totally inappropriate angle. Discouraged I look around to figure out what I should try next. I notice a thunder cloud rolling in from the north so I decide maybe I should call it a night and re-apply the tarping system before the rain starts. I fling the worthless test piece off the roof, and drag myself back up the rope, over the ridge, down the other side and back down the ladder. On the ground again, I retrieve one of my 4 hammer staplers, Thinking ahead, I check to make sure it is loaded with stales and put an extra box of ammunition in my pocket in case I run out while re-applying the tarps. I climb back up the ladder, re-rope myself into the climbing harness, haul myself back up to the ridge, use my fancy descender to work myself down the other side and begin to staple down the tarps. The third whack with the stapler results in it jamming. (a frequent occurence I might add) Happy that my new descender is holding me securely in place I attempt to unjam the stapler. It proves hopeless. About this time my wife and daughter arrive in front of the house. While I had been working they had decided they were hungry and went to KFC despite the fact that the refridgerator is overflowing with food that they bought this weekend to feed my work crew. (they were tired to cook) I figure this is a stroke of good luck and ask my lovely wife to go into the garage and throw up one of my other staplers. I hang suspended by my rope and await her return. She comes back with the stapler in hand and disappears from sight below the roof line. I tell her to stand back farther so that she has a better angle to throw it to me. Her first attempt bangs off the roof edge prompting her to yell for my daughter, Rachel. She instructs Rachel to make the second attempt. My daughter's first attempt has the same dismal result. As Rachel winds up for the third throw my wife warns her NOT to throw it though the living room window. You guessed it!!! The third throw ends with a creassendo of shattering glass punctuated with numerous vocal curses.

As I write this, sipping a glass of scotch, (can't drink beer anymore, doctors orders, but scotch is Ok) I wonder...Why do I even try....Why is my stomach growling but I have no appetite? Why don't I just screw my job tending stupid computers, screw the house, screw the bills and go live by myself in some shack back up in the mountains? Then I remember that the only thing I have left to screw is my 1958 model wife... Most of all, I wonder, WHY CAN'T WOMEN THROW ???...

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