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June / July 2006 Contest Results |
My Unhandyman
By
Denise Malloy, Montana
My husband said
those three little words. It was perfect timing, just when I needed to
hear them the most. Most women long to hear “I love you” or “You’ve lost
weight,” (a close second and heartily welcomed comment).
But my three
words usually come an hour after my husband has been to retrieve the
toolbox. And without fail, I hear those three little words: “Call a
professional.”
You see, my husband likes to try to fix things. When he goes for the
toolbox, I keep the phone nearby, programmed to 911, the plumber, the
electrician, and the handyman. He means well and even looks like he
knows what he is doing, until he picks up a tool. Then all hell breaks
loose.
Now don’t get me wrong, my husband is an intelligent, athletic, and
talented man. He is a medical professional, a specialist in his field.
He rides his mountain bike over technical terrain. He plays the drums.
But put a screwdriver in his hand and you don’t know what might get
broken next.
I made the mistake of assuming that fixing things was a male trait, a
dominant gene thing. Growing up, my dad was an eclectic fixer, he could
fix anything. I incorrectly assumed that my husband possessed this
ability, a useful skill, unlike his savant-like aptitude to recite stats
for any year of Major League Baseball. I remember the first time I asked
him to look at the washing machine when it had quit working. He stood
there studying it with concentration.
He jiggled the
knobs, opened and closed the lid twice, shrugged his shoulders and
announced “it’s broken.” I probably looked as puzzled as he did. “Well,
fix it,” I suggested.
My husband is proof of the nurture side of the argument in the
nature/nurture debate of the fix-it world. He is proof that you must be
raised around a fixer to be one. So I can’t hold this against him. He
can’t help it, it’s in his DNA. His dad is a non-fixer who only has a
hammer and a screwdriver, not even a toolbox to keep them in. I think in
reality there is a state law that prohibits him from possessing more.
The fixing endeavors at our house start with a festive atmosphere.
“C’mon boys,” he announces with a smile. My sons visibly cringe right
along with me now when Dad goes to get the toolbox. They look at me to
see if I am going to stop him this time. I nod at them to go to on with
Dad. At least until the profanity begins.
My husband is a calm and patient man. But the toolbox brings out a
Jekyll and Hyde response in him, where no holds are barred on the
language. Once the fixing begins, I shoo them out of the room and
preferably out of the county. As he gets into his project, his eyes
glaze over and his personality transforms. With a hammer in his hand, he
works in profanity like a potter works in clay. He crafts masterful
descriptions all rated “M” for Mature. He speaks in ampersands,
exclamations and pound signs.
Our most recent disaster occurred on his day off, the most frightening
time, when I am not there to direct him to a more helpful task, such as
watching ESPN. He was replacing the leaky kitchen faucet when I found
him under the sink, discarded tools strewn around his legs, the sound of
metal against metal with a bass undertone of profanity as a backbeat.
“Finished!”
he announced triumphantly. As he reached for the faucet I reached for
the phone. When he flipped on the faucet, some water did flow out of the
tap. But most flowed out from under the sink in a current that would
rival the nearby Yellowstone River. He looked puzzled, turned the water
off, and scooted back under the sink. An hour later, he reemerged
looking slightly wet and defeated then uttered those magic words: “Call
a professional.”
Later, we stood in the kitchen watching the plumber. “I thought I had it
fixed,” he muttered apologetically. Suddenly, I was talking to a player
on the underdog team. I wanted to swat him on the rear end and tell him
to get back in there. “You’ll get it next time,” I told him. After
fifteen years of marriage, even I wanted to believe it. But I won’t
reprogram the phone anytime soon.
http://www.denisemalloy.com
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