I recently did some caulking in the bedroom. I bought the tube of caulk and the squeezy thing with the trigger that you need to make it work. I successfully squirted a wad of goo into a big crack between the floor and the wall and smoothed it out. Some extra goo got smeared around adjacent areas. Attempting to clean it up with a paper towel just made it worse. It looks like hell. But I did it. I was proud.
Recently I had to reset the cable modem. To do that, I needed to insert something small inside a little hole on the back. A nail would be ideal. I looked everywhere, but other than the nails jammed into the wall for the purpose of holding artwork, I couldn't find one anywhere. I finally found one in Clyde's tool box.
I have a tool box too, but I couldn't find a nail there. Are you surprised I have a tool box? I don't remember how I got it but it's always been in one of my closets, sometimes buried under paper bags or Christmas decorations. It contains a hammer and two different types of screwdrivers, Phillips and the other kind. It also contains a lot of cords and adapters for computers and VCRs from the 90s which I've held on to, just in case. They are not helpful for the current problem we are having with the cable modem, but that's a story for a different time.
I learned everything I know about machines from my dad. He was a good man, very wise about many things. But he was not "handy." Dad taught me everything he knew about fixing cars: get out your credit card and take it to a mechanic. The family tradition continues.
For the record, I do know how to change a tire, thanks to that long stretch of Interstate 80 between Laramie and Rawlins, Wyoming. Picture it: no AAA. Just me and a jack standing over a flattened wheel. And my equally inept boyfriend at the time who was at least able to read the directions from the driver's manual while I skinned my knees on gravel and got my hands and shirt all dirty and sweaty. I earned some butch points that day.
Currently, Clyde and I are coping with a drippy kitchen faucet, a bathroom towel bar that is falling off the wall, and a front door latch which sticks so badly that if there were a fire, we'd probably burn up just trying to get out. Any normal man (and many women, of course) could just make these repairs with their tools. I have even seen little kits at Ace Hardware for drippy faucets. But I don't know how to use them and my little Phillips isn't adequate anyway. I have decided to call a "handyman" company to fix all of these things at once.
I imagine the handyperson coming through our sticking front door expecting to see old people too frail to wield a wrench but finding instead two able-bodied men who should be able to fix their own towel bar. What can I say? I'm an embarrassment to manhood. So I just whip out my credit card and the job gets done.
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