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!
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.