If the women don’t find you handsome…
My honey-do list just keeps getting longer.
The pandemic has put me before a moment of truth in the realm of household handiness. My honey-do list is spiking faster than the infection rate in Florida – and my go-to excuses for avoiding handyman projects have all but evaporated.
It’s not like I’m out of town or off to a meeting. And I can’t bring myself to fake another dreaded Zoom call. We’re home - basically all the time - and the list just keeps getting longer...
What makes it harder (on my ego, at least) is that I can sense Sue’s disappointment.
I fear that she yearns for a throwback man of years gone by. Unlike me, this man of action is never the first to speak, and when he does, it’s in short pithy expressions of cowboy wisdom. He fearlessly tackles any project – big or small – with an innate understanding of how to do the job - the right way – every time.
Inflaming my growing sense of inadequacy is our (socially distanced) stroll through our neighbour’s yard. Pamela and Al live down the road with Georgie and Gus – their German Shorthaired Pointers. Gus is an adorable puppy upon whom Sue has an understandable crush.
This is GUS… the German Shorthaired Pointer puppy upon whom Sue has a crush.
From around the back of the house appears Al. Picture the Marlboro Man (minus the smokes) with a tool holster around his waist. Al is doing his own landscaping – tearing up sod, carting wheelbarrows full of topsoil and positioning patio stones.
Al is supposed to be a friend. He tips his hat and moseys over for a parlay. He tackles any repair or renovation – indoors or out – but would never boast about his handiness. “If there’s one thing Al can brag about – it’s his modesty,” says Pamela.
“If there’s one thing Al can brag about - it’s his modesty.”
Then comes the moment of truth as Sue spots a heart-shaped structure in their garden bed.
“That’s so lovely! Where did you get the trellis?” Sue asks Pamela.
“Oh, Al made it for me in his spare time,” she replies.
“Honey, did you see what Al made?” My wife’s words are like a dagger to the heart. But of course, I think to myself, Al, the humble buckaroo, twists trees and branches into romantic garden décor for his wife! How the hell am I to compete with that?
Then Sue takes the humiliation to an entirely other level.
“Al, do you think you could teach Ted to be more handy?” Sue asks.
I can only assume that she felt comfortable making the strange request because Al has previously expressed heartfelt, wrangler sympathy for any poor bride that has endured years of late-night IKEA-tantrums and righty-tighty, lefty-loosey miscues on the part of her hapless husband.
“You understand, ma’am, you can’t teach common sense. Don’t go in – if you don’t know the way out,” Al replies.
I stand there, scratching my head, in complete incredulity. This can’t be happening. My wife isn’t just setting up a play date – she’s booking me a spot in Al’s arts & crafts day camp.
“Send the little feller down here with a packed lunch and a box of band aids. I’ll see what I can do,” adds Al.
“I don’t need handyman classes,” I exclaim – with furrowed brow and arms crossed. “I built my own garden box,” I protest.
“So y’er an alfalfa desperado – are ya, Hoss?” Al says.
“He didn’t build the garden box,” Sue explains. “Our neighbour Robin built it. But Ted did watch him,” she adds.
“Please don’t call me Hoss,” I mumble.
“Oh don’t get y’er shirt in a knot, Little Joe,” Al says with a wry smile.
What follows is the final eradication of my machismo – a visit to our own domain.
Al and Pamela stroll into our yard and Sue’s expression of joy and relief is undeniable as she pulls from her pocket the list of unfinished chores.
“Always drink upstream from the herd ma’am… We don’t wanna’ be doing things all higgledy-piggledy, do we now?” is Al’s baffling response.
(“What do those words even mean?” I stammer under my breath.)
Sue sees Al with a power tool and her nesting instincts are appeased. Put the same tool in my hand and she accusingly hollers, “Where are you going with that???”
With efficiency, Al glides through the list. A job that would have taken me hours, and necessitated the viewing of several “How-To” videos on YouTube, takes him mere seconds.
Upon completion, he holsters his hammer, wipes sweated brow with red handkerchief, and thanks Sue for the cold drink. The four of us sit (safely distanced) on the deck and Sue commends him for his precision, his perseverance - how he didn’t take a single break until the entire list was complete.
“Aw-shucks ma’am,” as Al tips his hat once more, “I’m not one for squattin’ with my spurs on, just happy to be of assistance… can’t be easy for you with only slick-heeled help ‘round these parts.”
With those words, I feel like a yellow-bellied, lily-livered lowlife. Some of my own desperado rage bubbles up and I turn to Pamela:
“Do you have, I don’t know ma’am, maybe an unfinished poem? A grub recipe that seems to be missing an ingredient? …Maybe you have some bookshelves that need rearrangin’? Alphabetically by author? Thematically? Why I’d even do ya… a Dewey… decimal system that is, ma’am…”
Pamela smiles and gracefully makes note of my offer.
- 30 -
