The mental calisthenics required to put up outdoor Christmas lights are beyond me. This should no longer be a revelation. I'm the guy whose rake says THIS END UP. I only buy light bulbs that come with directions.

Yet every year, I march out to the front of the house, light sets draped over my shoulders like bandoliers, armed to do battle with another Christmas season.

I've put up the lights every year for two decades. Never have the plugs matched up on the first try.

I always end up with two female plugs. I make Clark Griswold look like Leonardo da Vinci.

"How come I can't do anything, Dad?"

I'm on the phone with Jim Daugherty, who is 70.

"WHAT?" he asked. Jim tends to talk loud, even when he hears you.

"I'm mechanically incompetent. Giving me something that says `Some Assembly Required' is like putting a sign on my back that says KICK ME HARD. What went wrong with me?

"I don't know," Jim Daugherty said. "You're a moron?"

I asked to speak to my mother.

"Oh, honey,'' she said. "You're good at other things.''

It began as a child

I wasn't good in shop class, where I once built a little wooden stage coach, then crushed it in the vise while applying one last touch of glue. When everyone else was fashioning magnificent grandfather clocks from boards of rich mahogany, Mr. Gene Koons sent me to the scrap wood box, to rescue pine shards for a cutting board.

I'm not good at putting stuff together. It's unfortunate for my children, who went years without bicycles or train sets or doll houses.

If I couldn't wheel it right out of the store in finished condition, they didn't get it. The Kid Down the Hall rode a tricycle until last year. He's 16.

And all this new electronic stuff? Oh, holy night.

I'm thinking of starting my own business: Idiot On Call. My guarantee: If I fix it, it's free. When I'm done connecting your DVD to your HDTV, you'll want me to RIP.

"I guess I never taught you much,'' Jim Daugherty concluded.

My maternal grandfather taught me everything he knew about everything mechanical, which was how to use a phone book and call someone. "I don't think I ever saw him with a screwdriver in his hand," Jim Daugherty said.

I hold screwdrivers. Until the vodka is gone.

"I always end up with two female plugs," I said to J.D.

"Yeah," he said. "You gotta be careful about that."

Thanks, pop. I'll keep that in mind.

Left behind in neighborhood

In our neighborhood, decorating is big. When we arrived here 14 years ago, people put candles in the windows or lights around the front door. It was elegant, understated and subdued. Also, rudimentary enough that even I could do it.

No more.

The neighborhood started showing off. It's a contest now. Lights on the Norway spruce, lights on the boxwoods, lights on the front-yard oak. Those cutesy strands of snowflake lights. Those trendy icicle strands. Lights all over the place. Our 'hood is so decked out with lights, you could see it from the moon.

This puts me at a disadvantage.

Word of my abilities got around. "Hey, everybody! Daugherty's putting up his lights!" Neighbors would appear for no reason, to watch me mangle the twinkling strands. Laughter would be uncontrolled.

Everyone needs a stress-buster during the holidays. It was my gift to the neighbors.

Now, they pass by and avert my gaze. My incompetence is so lastingly profound, it's practically terminal. The neighbors hustle off, hoping not to catch whatever it is I have that prohibits me from getting the extension cords plugged in properly.

I am left alone but for the twinkling strands, and two female plugs. It's jingle hell. All the way.

E-mail pdaugherty@enquirer.com