Shock and Awe

Last night, I came home late after a meeting. I went upstairs to say good night to my daughters, E and S, who had already gone to bed. I kissed my tween and then went into her sister’s room. S was crying softly to herself in the dark room.

 “What’s wrong, baby? Why are you crying?” I asked her, rubbing her back.
“Everyone’s been mean to me all night, and I’m just frustrated,” she told me.

I like to think I can go to a meeting for a few hours and not have the house fall apart in my absence. In fact, when I came in, I noticed the kitchen had been cleaned, the lunches packed, and the kids in bed. I was thrilled. I planned on showing my husband just how thrilled I was after I made sure the kids were asleep. So I was surprised to hear how upset S was, given that everything looked pretty pulled together to me.

“Who’s been mean to you? Do you want to talk about it? Tell me what happened.”
 “Daddy was mad at me and I spilled my water twice.”
“Sweetie, I don’t think Daddy would be mad about spilled water. It’s just water; it dries. It’s not like you spilled a bucket of latex paint.”
S smiled through her tears. “No, but he yelled at me and I had to clean it up myself.”

S is ten. She is perfectly capable of cleaning up a cup, even two cups, of spilled water.

“I doubt he would be mad at you for spilling water. He seemed like he was in a good mood when I left.” I tried to let her know I sympathized with how she felt, but also that perhaps she was overreacting. Overreacting runs in the family, both sides, so the kids were blessed with a double dose of melodrama. 
“He wasn’t crabby when you left,” she said.
“Maybe he’s just tired. He had a long day.”
“No, he got crabby after he electrocuted himself,” she said.

Wait, what?

 A couple of days ago, the fluorescent lights in the downstairs bathroom fizzled out. You know what I mean, don’t you? When you turn on the light switch and the fluorescent bulbs blink and flicker and then allow spirits to communicate with you through the faint twitchy glow? Well, try running in the house to pee with Haunted Mansion lighting. It’s just creepy, like you expect to see the kid from The Ring behind you in the mirror. We were all out of the lifetime supply of fluorescent bulbs we discovered in the attic after we moved in, so one of us had to go to Home Depot to get some more.

My husband had left the label from the box of bulbs on the counter. I thought that if I ran that errand for him, he would be so pleased that he would change the bulbs in the bathroom and I could stop feeling like I was at a séance every time I took a crap. So I decided to surprise him with a fresh box of bulbs. That might sound like a surprise to you, but to me, going to Home Depot is worse than going to the gynecologist, the dermatologist, and the ophthalmologist combined, while being forced to watch a football game. I saw it as a sincere effort to help on my part.

 I stopped by the Home Depot on the way home from the gym, thinking I had the label, so it would be a quick dash in, dash out stop. As usual, I was wrong. It turns out you need a fricking electrical engineering degree to buy fluorescent bulbs. 32 watts, 40 watts, 60 watts. 48 inches, 60 inches. I checked my label, which was from bulbs purchased in 1993, and tried to match it with today’s newfangled bulbs, which was like trying to buy an MP3 to play on your 78 speed turntable.

I finally figured out the right length and wattage, but then I had to make the most important choice: what kind of lighting? Did we want soft white, natural light, bright light, work light, multi-purpose, day light? Oh my God, I am too stupid to buy a light bulb.

I didn’t even know how many I needed to buy because I don’t know how many of those tubes fit in the box light over the sink. I felt like my husband probably does at the grocery store. I tried to call him, which is what he would do to me in the reverse situation, but he was busy, so I had to make an executive decision. I bought a box of ten bulbs so that, on the off chance I had guessed correctly, I wouldn’t have to attempt to do it again for at least a few years, or seven, if the information on the box was true. By the grace of the lighting gods, I was correct on all accounts. I left the box in the bathroom, and asked my husband to please change the bulbs while I was at the meeting.

 My husband, who is normally very handy, did in fact change the bulbs while I was gone. He stood on the sink top to change them, and unfortunately, something happened, causing him to almost slip. He accidentally touched the metal end of the bulb in an effort to not fall and break his neck or drop the tube and expose us all to mercury poisoning. And presto! He got shocked. He released a string of obscenities, and yes, he admitted to me later, he was not a happy camper after his near-death experience.

What my daughter didn’t tell me was that at the same time her father was accidentally killing himself in the bathroom, she spilled one of the two cups of water, then yelled to him to help her clean it up. So he yelled back at her to do it herself. Because nothing makes electrical burns more fun than getting one while touching water.

“Well, S,” I said to her while still rubbing her back, “why don’t you give your dad a break? If I got electrocuted, I think I’d be pretty crabby too. Wouldn’t you?”
 She laughed a little and said,” Yeah, you’re right, Mom.”

Why does all the good stuff happen when I’m not at home?