Handymen & Tinkers

I was on my way to work early one morning last week, obediently adhering to the speed limit and neurotically running through the checklist in my head. Besides the generally boring groceries, bills, car-washing and house-cleaning on my list, I also have an ongoing backyard project. It’s very possible that it’s too much for one person, but my plan is to level one area of the yard and put in a patio of random shaped flagstone pavers. I envision it with lantana peeking ever so slightly from between the flagstone. It’s not a simple job—there’s a lot of preparation, much of which is complete, but I was considering renting one of those loud machines that messes with the dirt just enough that getting it level is a piece of cake. See? I don’t know what I’m doing nor do I know the name of the machine or how to work it. I only know I’ve seen them and I think it will work for me.

As I drove, a white pick up truck—a work truck—came up on my right. Emblazoned on the sides and the back of the truck were ads for ‘handyman’ services. I couldn’t see inside but I imagined that it was packed with every tool known to man, maybe a ladder, some cans of dull-colored, dried-up paint, rakes and shovels, rolled up extension cords, power tools, with maybe even a little room leftover to fit a John Deere ride-on lawnmower. Behind the wheel was a tough looking guy with a full beard. I resisted the urge to roll down the window and shout something smart about him not being very ‘handy’ with a triple blade razor, but I decided against it. I wondered if it’s a job requirement for handymen to be big and rough and brawny; I think I’d be a little anxious about opening the front door to find a hulking figure with an out of control beard and muscles covered in tattoos standing there with a hammer in one hand and a chainsaw in the other.

Growing up I never understood the meaning of handyman; there were plumbers and electricians and gardeners and dry-wallers and specialists in every area. Who the hell needs a ‘handyman’…? It didn’t take me long to figure it out. Sometime around 1990 I realized why God put the Jacks of all Trades & Masters of None on this earth: it was in response to the overabundance of un-handy husbands. I don’t want to sound too sexist or traditional when it comes to marital roles, but Mother of Christ, I should not have to climb a ladder and clean a gutter of dirt and grime and clumps of leaves and those nugget-things that fall from palm trees. Did I mention…no woman should have to do that when there is a perfectly healthy man sitting right inside that house, reclining in a chair and watching Sports Center or Monday Night Football or a Sham Wow commercial. And did I mention that this ladder-climbing very possibly took place between breast feeding an infant and doing a mammoth pile of laundry? And maybe I was teetering on that ladder when I’d get one of those friendly shout outs that resounded through the neighborhood, reminding me to get (fill in the blank) at the grocery store. Did I mention any of that?

Now, I realize there is a quite an expanse of territory to cover when it comes to household chores and fixing things. Even when I take the element of lazy or disinterested out of the mix, little repair jobs around the house can cause a gigantic pain in the ass. The point is this: things don’t fix themselves and not everything requires a professional. But in my life, sports and imported beers always seemed to win out over fixing a screen or leaky sink. And that’s when it happened.

A secret, silent election was held in my house. Apparently I won by a landslide. The problem was that I was never aware of the election until after the voting closed. I protested once or twice that I just wasn’t worthy nor was I qualified to serve the household in this manner, but decided quickly that it was easier to just get the job done. Mastering these things was never my goal; I only wanted the incessant dripping faucet to stop or the cracked window pane to be replaced.  And the alternative would have been too painful: endless discussions of how to go about it, where to find the parts, how much will it cost, who can we call, is there a class or Saturday workshop, how long will it take, what if it goes wrong, blah-blah-freakin-blah. And that’s how it happened that I was the unspoken but clearly designated handyman/gardener/plumber/electrician/computer technician/freezer-iced-over-troubleshooter/gutter cleaner/trash hauler and car-tinkerer—or, as I prefer to think of myself, a Tinker. The first few things I tackled pissed me off but I just put my head down and worked—and dared anyone to interrupt/suggest/ comment.  Over the course of several years, I’ve learned how to lay bricks, remove 50 year old wallpaper, pull up 1971 shag carpeting and refinish wood floors; mix cement for new fence posts, rewire light fixtures, solder a pipe, change a dryer vent, and replace a window pane.

In addition to the glitz and glamour of nursing babies and changing diapers, I became an annoying DIY housewife, checking out HGTV for tips and wandering the vast aisles of Home Depot in search of answers. The men there are very nice, and they’re handy…and so, I thought, was the bearded handyman in the white truck. I called his number the other day to ask if he did yard projects. He does. He laughed when I tried to describe the machine I want to level the yard, and corrected me, telling me what I need is a rototiller. He offered to come look at the work, give me a quote and at least show me a rototiller. Ok, I said. Little does he know I’m going to introduce him to a thing called a Razor.