Sunday, December 29, 2013

Clown Atlas

If there’s a patron saint of klutzes, I could sure use his help.

I’ve been on what feels like a nonstop doofus run for the last week or so, as I break or lose just about anything I put my hands on.

It started when I misplaced one of my crappy old gloves.

I can’t even guess how these things are—I think they once belonged to my father--so it’s not like I lost some valuable piece of attire.

But it’s just so goddamn annoying. There are few things as worthless as a single glove-- unless it belongs to Captain Hook.

And what really bugged me was the fact that just the day before I remarked on how I hadn’t lost a glove in years. So I got a fistful of karma for mouthing off.

In desperation, I hiked all over Bay Ridge, retracing my steps like some cut-rate Kojack in search of my missing mitten. But I came up empty.

Luckily the glove turned up at my gym the following day and I thought, okay, life will now return to normal.

Then disaster struck.

I have a statue of St. Martin de Porres that once belonged to my grandmother. She used to pray to him all the time and I still do. I even took “Martin” as my confirmation name to honor my grandmother.

Up until recently I kept the statue on my bedroom bureau so I could see St. Martin every morning when I got up.

So I’m making my bed one morning and for some strange and rather dimwitted reason, I snapped the top blanket in the air like a matador challenging an Iberian bull—and knocked St. Martin flat on his back. Ole!

Prayer Position

For a second I thought all was well, that no damage had been done. But then I noticed a little piece of plastic on the bureau and realized to my horror that I had actually severed St. Martin’s praying hands.

I managed to offend Almighty God, trash my grandmother’s memory, and assure my own special place in Hell, all in one bonehead move.

It looked like a clean break, but I couldn’t get the hands to go back on no matter what I did. I called my auntie for a telephonic freak-out and she did her best to calm me down.

“Grandma was not a small-minded person,” she said. “And neither is God.”

I decided I had to take some kind of action, so I ran up to a local antique store and the owner showed me where I was going so pathetically wrong.

I had the hands pointing out, like St. Martin was about to dive off the Brooklyn Bridge, but they actually go against his chest, so that—duh!--he’s actually praying.

Eight years of Catholic school you’d think I’d know something like that.

I got a tube of Crazy Glue and went to work. It is hardly a slick repair job, but St. Martin’s officially got his hands back on and that’s all that matters.

I also helped my sister out of a jam on Christmas Eve when I glued one of our mother’s broken plates back together. I’m turning into a regular Mr. Fixit.

Or maybe not. Coming home on Friday, I put my copy of “Cloud Atlas” into my knapsack and managed to tear a nice gash in the cover. Even Crazy Glue can’t fix that.

And this afternoon I knocked over the remote and now the little door that holds that batteries in place is hanging limply in the air. This is not a good way to end the old year or start the new one.

So, if you can hear me, St. Doofus Aquinas, please stop me before I do any more damage.


Ron said...

Rob, the way you wrote this post, CRACKED ME UP!

And being someone who was raised Catholic, I know how you feel about the statue of St. Martin because I have a picture of the Sacred Heart in frame on my window sill, which I have occasionally knocked over and onto the floor. Well, you should me. I instinctively grab the photograph and kiss it, and then say, "I'm sorry Christ that I knocked you onto the floor. Forgive me." And then I laugh because I almost hear Christ saying, "No worries, Ronnie Boy, all is well. You didn't hurt me."

"I had pointing the hands out, like St. Martin was about to dive off the Brooklyn Bridge...'

OMG, that made me laugh out loud!

And so did the glove on the floor with the middle flexed. HILARIOUS, Rob!

I think your is right, “Grandma was not a small-minded person,” she said. “And neither is God.”

And I also think God has a sense of humor. And bet He was laughing at this post saying, "Rob...I love the way you write!"

GREAT post, Rob! And have a super week, buddy!

Rob K said...

Hey, Ron, I knew you'd get a kick out of this!

"No worries, Ronnie Boy, all is well. You didn't hurt me."

Yes, exactly! Jesus believed in love, not punishment! We get so twisted about how God will react and we forget that He is all merciful.

I hope you're right about God having a sense of humor! Wouldn't want to make him mad!

Take care, buddy! And take care of the Sacred Heart!

Bijoux said...

First, not being Catholic, I had no idea there was a St. Martin, or that he was African American? Where have I been?

I learned the hard way that one should never drop ANYTHING on ceramic tile when we moved here. It shatters Corelle like you wouldn't believe.

Happy New a Year!

Rob K said...

Hi, Bijoux!

The hard way is usually the best way to learn--though it can leave a lot of damage in its wake.

St. Martin de Porres was born in Peru in 1579, the illegitimate son of a Spanish nobleman and a freed slave from Panama.

I'm not sure how my old Italian grandmother came to love him so, but love him she did!

Take care and Happy New Year!