Family Handyman rejects

My dad used to like to tease my mom about how the more educated she became, the less she actually knew how to do. I viewed this as an overt display of insecurity that he was married to a woman with both nice boobs and a Master’s degree, when he merely finished high school, followed by a few college courses. And he doesn’t have nice boobs, either.

But my dad is one of those geniuses who can fix anything. (He also has a heart of gold, but that’s an entirely different story). He knows how everything works in all its mechanical intricacies. My family never had to take a car or any other piece of machinery to a repair shop. Daddy would fix it in the driveway or his home office. We had illegal satellite television for years. He built a spa room onto our old house. My science projects showed an amazing scientific aptitude I sure as hell don’t have. (What fourth grader makes an electromagnetic device? All the other kids were testing which bubble gum has the longest lasting flavor).

I’m reminded of my dad when I realize that despite all those A’s, I don’t know a damn thing about home maintenance. Last time he visited, the circuit to my bathroom and kitchen lights blew. While I was sorry my dad spent much of his time that day tending to the repairs, I was relieved it didn’t happen while I was by myself. Because then I’d have to rely on Isa. I might spend three weeks peeing, showering, and microwaving something in the dark while the not-so-super super dillydallied on the stoop (beer in hand, of course) or in the cool of his basement apartment. Doing important things. Like picking his nose and playing with lottery scratch-off cards.

So then I couldn’t sleep one night. I tried to sleep, but couldn’t turn my brain off. At least, not about those liberal arts things I think. Or some magazine article about thin people who are technically overweight. That one really got to me.

I decided to do the dishes with all this energy. I was washing this cylindical cookie tin my mom sent me for my birthday. I wasn’t thinking about physical science or the fact that the lid fit perfectly inside the sink’s drain. I didn’t notice this until it was stuck in the drain and wouldn’t come out, as a matter of fact.

I had a problem. The sink was stopped up with no solution in sight. I had to use some bowls to remove the soapy water. Now I needed to figure out how to get that tin out. The edges of my kitchen utensils didn’t work. My dad would roll over in his grave (except he’s not dead) if he knew my first thought was, “Hmmm… If only I had a really strong magnet right now.”

Then I decided I’d need my drill, but I’ve never used it. So I used the hammer, because I thought it would help. I didn’t think about how it’s not so smart to push the obstruction into the hole. I blame the fact that I didn’t play with Legos as a child.

I sent Cade an email: “Plumbing emergency! Your assistance needed tomorrow!” I like getting him to help me with my home repairs, because he’s also retarded in this area, and I feel better that us two Family Handyman rejects found each other.

The next day, Cade fixed everything. It only took him twenty-five minutes with a drill, nail, hammer, old decorative railroad tie, and wrench. I could just imagine what my dad would say: “Geez! How many college degrees does it take to get anything done around here? A hard day’s work and a cool glass of water would bury you, girl!”

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