The Narcofod

I’m putting up quarter-round trim in Lori’s room. It’s not easy. I cut the strips in the garage. They’re roughly 10 feet long, and getting them into the house, through the living room, into the hallway and then into her room is an awkward twisty-pokey-clattery affair. The trim is bright pink, to go with Lori’s purple room. There’s no accounting for taste. I’m good with color. I did our living room ceiling.

I finagle the first of the quarter-rounds into her room, climb up the ladder, and fit it into place. To my exasperation, it’s several inches short. I can’t believe it. Lori helped me days ago with a tape measure to pin down all the lengths to a 32nd of an inch. How could I miss by inches?

Later I’ll recall that when we were measuring, I was up on a ladder, barely able to reach, so I placed the spool of the tape measure against the end, then wrote down the measurement where the tape entered the spool — with the understanding that I would then need to add the length of the spool. I even explained all this to Lori at the time. But I never did it. I forgot. The spool is 2.5 inches long — making my cut 2.5 inches short.

But right now I don’t know what’s going on. Flustered, I climb down from the ladder with the strip. I need to take it back out to the garage to recheck my numbers.

Again I’m fighting to maneuver the strip out of Lori’s room, into the hallway, then into the living room. The strip seems determined to snag every object within reach at both ends. Then I hear it — an ominous shifting of porcelain. I glance over my shoulder just in time to see a large figurine atop a small bookcase just inside Lori’s room tottering.

It’s the Monkey King!

There’s no time to get to it. I watch in horror as it falls. Fortunately, it hits the carpet in the hallway and makes a two-inch bounce. But it’s a football bounce, sending it onto the unforgiving linoleum of Lori’s room. There it conks gently and cracks in two, the pieces rocking gently like cradles in hell.

The end … of me.