DIY hell

It's a bitterly cold November day, with the temperature hovering at around 60 degrees. Yes, 60, in upstate New York (upstate as in close to Canada). If the weather stays like this, Santa's sled will cut through rooftops like a hacksaw, and all the Jewish kids can laugh at their neighbors. But the weather is slated to change, and a backyard project of a brick is mostly done. I say mostly, because it's not level, the side supports aren't whacked down, and it's about as level as the ocean. In the spring, it seemed like a good idea. The missus got a screaming deal on lots of bricks, and all that was left was grunt work. So I scoured the web, read books, and it should have been a cakewalk. Maybe it was because I skipped shop in middle school, because the hulking instructor was too intimidating, talked of big guns, and the room not a happy place to be. And maybe I'm just a fuckup, and can't do simple things like measure. In any event, I'll have to fix it in the spring. Part of the problem is the bricks aren't all the same size (length or width, and I'm not talking small differences here, but rather large ones). I am sure there are many other problems, that a man like, oh, Norm Abrams of The New Yankee Workshop could spot in a second, but that I would never see. And so, I understand a DIY project now as not unlike a carnival barker, selling the headless woman exhibit to you, but once inside, you're on your own. And I have this horrid, turn your homework in a month too late, and sloppily done feeling in my gut, and it's not pleasant. As a going away present from the bricks, while lifting the last six over, about a foot from the ground they all came loose, and smashed my 3rd and 4th fingers on my right hand. Take that, neophyte. So the bricks are after me too, as well as the cookies.