Mario's Matchmaker --- and the Universe Kicks My Ass (again) With Its Gentle Persuasion

I dreamed I was taking a meeting with Mario Lopez, TV host and actor of Saved by the Bell fame. We were sitting at a lunch table with Robert Redford in one of LA's lesser known eateries. It was a buffet type restaurant, and the 4x6 folding tables were arranged banquet style, grouped together in rows two deep and six long, and covered with cheap plastic table covers. The topic of discussion was the dating difficulties of the Hollywood elite, and I was trying to sell my matchmaking services to the younger actor.

"But Mario," I insisted, "Don't you want to find a woman who appreciates you for you?"

"That has been a difficulty, yes," he admitted. "All they see is my money and my fame."

"Exactly," Robert Redford chimed in. "It's like feeding pigeons in the park."

Jenny Bennett, who had been sitting at an adjacent table, took this as her cue to get up and hit the buffet. The two men watched her walk away and then leaned in closer to talk a bit more privately.

"Like that one," Mario said. "You can just spot a gold digger a mile away."

"To be fair, she just doesn't know you for who you are. You never know, she might wind up being your soulmate. But you've got to let people past the layers, Mario. Let them see who you are on the inside."

I don't recall much more. It was pretty short on story, and I feel like I'm fabricating as it is. When I get some time, I'll recount the story of how I almost put my eye out yesterday while trying to re-flint a cheap plastic lighter.

----

 

OK, so let me relate, as briefly as possible, the story of how I almost blinded myself while attempting the most insignificant of tasks, the re-flinting of a lighter.

Lighters are cheap, right? Like, under a dollar for a disposable Bic. Well, the one that I had was even cheaper, since I found it on the ground while walking on Loma Rica Road. I've found a lot of drug paraphernalia on the side of the road, including several industrial grade butane torches and a couple of glass pipes. A lot of people, smoking a lot of stuff, walk down that road, apparently.

The lighter I was repairing was a little black plastic number. It has "My Fucking Lighter" printed on the front along with a graphic of someone's middle finger. In small writing on the side are the words "Eco Friggin Friendly! High use of Recycled Material. 3X more durable. Don't Throw Me Out! I'm Reffillable, Reflintable, and I'm collectible, too!" 

Being the Eco Warrior that I am, I picked up some butane at the store, so I could keep refilling it. It became my Saturday Morning Special, and I was proud to call it "My Fucking Lighter." OK, I wasn't really getting that sappy over it, but I really am that cheap. I'll spend ten bucks to save a dollar, if the math works out that way. 

After nearly a year of use, the flint began to wear out, so I decided to replace the flint with one scavenged from a dead disposable Bic. You know, the kind that have zero butane left in them, but you keep them around hoping to get one last light out of them. What, you all don't do that? And I suppose you don't take the dead batteries out of a TV remote and rub them around in your hands to warm them up, just so you don't have to get up and change them right then? 

Anyway, armed with some forceps and zero knowledge of the task I was about to undertake, I began disassembling the lighter. I took off the metal shield, then I pried the little wheel out from its plastic bracket. This didn't seem to be the the most well planned replacement procedure, because the wheel's bracket was a rather tight fit, and I couldn't see very many people being able to remove it without breaking the plastic. 

The instant that I popped the wheel free, what was left of the flint, which was spring loaded, came flying out and disappeared somewhere into the carpet or furniture. I looked for it for several minutes before becoming exasperated. Fucking universe disappearing bullshit, I inwardly cursed. Actually, I'm pretty sure I vocalized it. I do that whenever I encounter the slightest difficulty in life.

"Damn you, fucking piece of shit! I'm not done with you!" I growled. 

I wasn't going to be deterred, so I went to find one of those dead Bics and rob the flint from its cadaver. Parts is parts. I spent another ten minutes or so looking for a lighter that was actually dead. Most of the non-functional lighters I own still have one or two lights left in them. True, you have to make ten or twenty attempts before you get that one lucky spark that ignites the weakest and briefest of flames. 

Finally, I found one. It was a white mini Bic, so old that the plastic was disintegrating into puffs of smoke when you turned the thumb striker. Its sacrifice would serve the cause nicely. I pried it apart with no regrets, and when I got to the wheel, the same thing happened with the flint. It flew out with such force that it ricocheted off the ceiling and bounced several times on the floor by the back door. Because it landed on linoleum, I was able to echo locate it with minimal cursing.

The flint from the Bic was substantially larger than the one from My Fucking Lighter, probably twice as long. That would be great, I thought. Longer flint, longer life. I gripped it with the forceps and began the first of many attempts to load it onto the spring and push the assembly back into its tiny hole. 

The problem was, as soon as I let go of the forceps, the little flint would rocket out. I was unable to get the wheel positioned on top of it while bending the bracket to accommodate its installation. I needed more hands and smaller fingers. I decided to use a paper clip, fashioning a makeshift brace to hold the flint under pressure while I removed the forceps and installed the wheel. 

Many times, I would get as far as having the wheel halfway positioned on the bracket, but I couldn't get the second side to seat. The flint would not go down far enough, it seemed, and eventually my finger would slip, and the flint would forcefully self-eject. 

"FUCK YOU, LIGHTER!!!" I screamed. "YOU THINK YOU'VE WON? FUCK YOU!!!"

That's when the universe decided it had had enough of my shit. After 20 or so attempts, I'd finally gotten the spring and the flint down in the hole, and I was all set with the paper clip. But when I released the forceps, the paper clip slipped off the flint, allowing the full pressure of the spring to shoot the tiny metal projectile directly at my face. 

I felt the sting in my right eye immediately. 

"FUCK!!!" I screamed. "IN THE EYE?!! You hit me in the FUCKING EYE? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY?" 

I got up from the chair and ran to the bathroom to make sure my eye was still intact. I couldn't see any blood or ruptures, so I calmed down a little. This could have been so much worse, I kept telling myself.

I abandoned the lighter project and went upstairs to make breakfast. I was probably hypoglycemic by then from being hyperfocused on my stupid task and neglecting to eat. As I was placing some vegetables on the cutting board, I got a good look at my eye in one of the mirrors next to the kitchen sink. In the cornea right above the pupil, nearly a bullseye in the middle of the iris, I could see a circular impression, a crescent shaped dent left by the end of the flint. 

I DENTED MY FUCKING EYEBALL.

This visual caused me to panic, and I began to pour sweat. My knees became weak, and I had to sit down on the couch for a minute. Both cats immediately came to my aid, providing the service of comfort for which they are on permanent retainer. 

"It's OK, kitties," I lied to them. "I'm OK." I kept telling myself how much worse it could have been. I could still see. The dent was just above my line of focus, and it didn't seem to be causing any visual anomalies. 

I got up and finished cooking breakfast, looking in the mirror every five minutes to confirm the damage. It was only visible from certain angles because of the eye's tendency to reflect images, hiding the damage its surface. Certain angles made it look obvious, however, and it went from a dent to a small bubble after an hour or two.

I read up on injuries to the cornea and made a few desperate texts to Emery and to my mom. Both of them suggested making an appointment with the ophthalmologist as soon as possible. Because it was Sunday, I was going to have to wait at least a day to be seen. 

I took some ibuprophen for the pain, as my eye was still stinging. After a few hours the pain lessened, and I spent the rest of the day mostly listening to TV shows. Every so often I'd look at the writing on a sign that I have on my wall, trying to determine if my vision was the same, better or worse. It mostly went from the same to worse, since all the stress and worry over my dented cornea was making my brain fatigued.

Then next day, I couldn't see any remnant of the dent from the day before, but I wanted to make sure there weren't any microparticles lodged in my eye. I managed to get an appointment with the Walmart Vision Center doctor. It had been 5 years since my last eye exam, and I figured I'd probably need a new prescription. The doctor gave me a regular eye exam and also put some dye in both eyes to check for abrasions.

"You got lucky," he said, and I agreed with him. 

I don't know if luck has anything to do with it. I think I was being taught a specific lesson, and my reprimand for being stubborn was a really good scare. I have since learned, or re-relearned, the principal that if you are struggling excessively with something, it is best to take a step back and re-evaluate your approach. You are probably doing something wrong.

That was indeed the case with my lighter project. The following day, I googled "re-flinting My Fucking Lighter," and I came up with a precise tutorial that didn't include launching dangerous projectiles at one's face. No prying or bending of brackets either. The entire assembly actually comes out, and the spring and flint are loaded from the bottom and screwed into place with a cap. Duh.

Why did I waste all this time recounting the minutia of such a pathetically stupid event? Well, I guess because this is my life, and this was something that happened. I also needed more practice doing the sentence writing thing, so there's that as well. 

And yes, I am grateful to be able to write this with two eyes that can still be corrected to 20/20 vision with the proper lenses. I'm also getting some safety goggles for my second pair of frames when I get my new glasses from Walmart in a week or so.