I'm not a doorbell, but I play one on t.v.

How many months does it take to screw in a door chime? Maybe another one. Back in February the doorbell went crackerdog-flopbot. It was buzzing loudly. Normal low-cost remedies, like chasing all the spiders out of the chime box, did not help. I disconnected the whole gizmo.

I eventually dragged my carcass into Home Depot to buy a Do It Yourself doorbell repair kit. How difficult can it be? Hubris alert! Voop-Voop! Hubris alert!


Unpacked the kit on the kitchen table. Since I have to shut off the circuit for the overhead lights to fix the doorbell, I can only work on it when there's lots of daylight in the upstairs hall.

Weeks went by. Occasionally someone tried to ring my doorbell. I saved ten bucks by not hearing the Girl Scout cookie salesgirl.

The first time I visited the woman who would become my walking buddy for going on fifteen years now, I was impressed with her front door intercom button. It said, "Don't talk to me. I'm broken." Well, actually, that was written on the button panel. Many days I've felt like wearing a sign with that message. What my doorbell needed was a message:



A close runner-up was, "I'm a doorbell, not an engineer."

© 2009 Nancy L. Ruder