Since we moved in the house Gertrude’s room has had this awful ceiling fan, of a color that is so disturbing that it can only be referred to as “brown”. The lights on the fan hung down like limp, dead arms. You might as well have given the kid a padded cell with a bare light bulb hanging down.
When one of the light bulbs fell out (literally, the bulb separated from the metal connector that is screwed into the socket), we decided that, perhaps, it as time to take the damned thing down.
As Gertrude would say when she encounters a situation she finds particularly vexing, “Problem!”
Despite the fact that I’ve watched at least two full half hour programs on home improvement, I do not have the skill to remove and replace an electrical fixture. You see, I’m an idiot when it comes to this.
So, I made the best preparations I could. I donned a rubber suit and handed my wife a two-by-four. “If anything happens,” I said, “Hit me with this.” Shortly there after, I lost consciousness.
When I awoke I saw my wife standing above me, with the two-by-four. “I saw a spider,” she said, as I rubbed the welt on my head.
Seriously, I called my friend Mike over and he helped me out. Or, to be exact, I made him do the dangerous stuff and I watched, shouting encouragement.
“That’s the live wire! I think. Why don’t you lick it and see if it is. I think I shut off the power. Stick it in your ear and see what happens.”
Despite my input, the switching of fixtures went smoothly and Gertrude now has a new light in her room. No more ceiling fan hung just above decapitation height.
“New, fresh light,” Gertrude exclaimed.
“Yes. Mike put it in.”
“Thanks Mike! New fresh light!”
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