As I write this, it’s 5 in the morning, and I’m once again questioning my masculinity.
I was sound asleep in my bed about two hours ago, when I awoke to a horrible screeching noise. It was the wind, screaming through the door in our bedroom, which leads to our balcony.
For some reason, something was loose on either the screen door or the regular door, and it was creating this horrible, high-pitched whine every time another gust hit.
As I stood there, in my pajama bottoms, fat, looking helplessly at the door, Cindy rolled over in the bed and said something that sounded like, “What the fuck?” Then rolled back the other way.
If I didn’t fix the damn door, neither of was going to get any sleep. And I had to get on a plane to go to DC to teach Integrating Print and Online. I had to fix this damn door, and I had to fix it right away.
But I can’t fix anything. I don’t have that gene. I was born without it. Once, while trying to hang some blinds, I stabbed myself in the forearm with a steak knife, and had to go to the hospital for stitches.
Wondering what I was doing with a steak knife? I didn’t even know where we kept the screwdrivers, so I was improvising. I still have the scar.
If you’re a guy, you’re supposed to be able to fix things. I can cook . . . boy, can I cook. And I can pick out a good bottle of wine from a wine list. But I can’t fix a damn thing.
If you put me on that show, “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy,” I could probably show the Queers a thing or two.
Once, I was on my boat with my pal David Murray, and we got pulled over by the Coast Guard for a routine check. “Can you open up the engine compartment?” the officer asked me, so he could check something.
I looked at Dave. He looked back at me. I didn’t say anything. As realization set in, a look of total and utter disgust came across his face.
“You don’t know where the engine is, do you?” he said.
I’d only had the boat for about four years . . . how the hell was I supposed to know where the engine was?
Every year at my son’s school, he is given $20 to buy gifts for his family on Kris Kringle day. When he was four (four!) he gave me a canvass tool belt. After I immediately tried it on, he said:
“Maybe you could put your kitchen spoons in there.”
Again, he was four.
I long ago learned to accept this . . . but every once in a while, I sicken myself. Like when I’m standing in front of a loose door that absolutely must be fixed, and I can’t fix it.
After looking at the door for a while (yes, I actually felt the hinges—as if, were they loose, I would be able to do anything about it), I just kind of shrugged, and went out to the kitchen.
That’s where I was, standing at the sink eating a cold turkey burger for breakfast, when I heard this from the bedroom:
“Jesus!”
It was Cindy. She was up. I heard her come stomping down the hallway. She walked into the kitchen, ignored me completely, opened up the “tool drawer,” (a mysterious place I’ve never been to) and took out what looked like a cordless screwdriver. Or maybe it was a drill. Hell, it could have been a souped-up vibrator for all I could tell.
She then stomped back to the bedroom where, within minutes, I heard some whirring noises, and some banging noises. I finished my breakfast burger and turned on the computer to check e-mail.
Five minutes later, Cindy came back out to the kitchen, slammed the tool back into the drawer, and went to bed. To her credit, she never said a word to me. Though I can imagine what she was thinking:
“Keep stuffing your face, panty-waist. I’ll fix the damn door.” Or,
“Maybe when you’re done eating, you can go to Home Depot and buy yourself a set of testicles.” Or,
“Hey Nancy, why don’t you whip us up an omelet with fresh chives, like you do, while I break out the tools and fix our house.”
She managed to fix the door. At 3:30 in the morning, during a wicked rain storm, with just one tool, she got ‘er done. You could give me perfect weather, a complete tool set, the personal coaching of Bob Villa, and a solid week. I still couldn’t fix it.
Sometimes, it’s hard to be a guy. Especially a metrosexualized one.
Comments (15)
Hey Steve,
We all already know (even those of us who've never met her) that Cindy is fantastic and clearly really patient and understanding!
However, I really don't think we should underestimate the value of the ability to choose a good bottle of wine off a menu, or a good chive omelet!
Cheers!
Kristen
Posted by Kristen | April 11, 2007 7:28 AM
Posted on April 11, 2007 07:28
As a fellow guy whose culinary skills outweigh his handyman value, I think the women in our lives are pretty lucky when it comes right down to it. If pressed to choose between a perfectly functioning house and a perfectly baked halibut with mango chutney and an expertly chosen bottle of wine, all served with candlelight and rapt attention to her every word, where do you think I'm placing my bets as the way to her heart?
Posted by Robert J Holland, ABC | April 11, 2007 7:45 AM
Posted on April 11, 2007 07:45
Now, now Steve--you're not giving yourself enough credit. You did *try* to fix it. When I got to the door, I see that you wedged a folded piece of paper between the door and the door jam.
And, let's not forget that you managed to do this without getting a paper cut. That's HUGE!!
Posted by Cindy C | April 11, 2007 8:07 AM
Posted on April 11, 2007 08:07
Wow, Robert, that sounds like a great recipe! Now do you make your own chutney, or go with a particular brand? Because I do have a recipe that's not that hard to make... Oh, and I recommend a great little inexpensive Chilean sauvignon blanc called Anakema, if you can get it.
And Steve, don't feel guilty at all about not being handy. I lost half a big toe putting together a table. I've never lost any part of me in the kitchen.
Posted by Michael Clendenin | April 11, 2007 8:37 AM
Posted on April 11, 2007 08:37
Big Sensitive Guys.... UNITE! :-)
I make my own chutney.
Posted by Robert J Holland, ABC | April 11, 2007 8:53 AM
Posted on April 11, 2007 08:53
Cindy,
Let's not give Steve ALL of the credit for trying to fix the door with a piece of paper. You know the paper came from the cat.
Good job Steve not getting the paper cut!
Love ya!
Posted by Terri C | April 11, 2007 10:07 AM
Posted on April 11, 2007 10:07
The word 'metrosexual' sends shivers down my spine. I'm not very handy myself, and I'm fairly good in the kitchen. But I think I deserve a better lable. Or maybe I'm just being sensitive...
Posted by Thomas Brakar | April 11, 2007 10:16 AM
Posted on April 11, 2007 10:16
Steve,
Loved the story, but wanted to break some bad news to you. In order to be metrosexual you must have a great selection of shoes and from previous conversation this is not the case. Time to start shopping. A nice pair of Donald Pliners would be a great start.
Posted by Jeff | April 11, 2007 12:56 PM
Posted on April 11, 2007 12:56
Oh, man, Jeff's comment is a huge relief to me! If I'm ever accused of being a metrosexual, I can just point to my feet!
Posted by Robert J Holland, ABC | April 11, 2007 1:42 PM
Posted on April 11, 2007 13:42
After being married for 18 years to a guy who wouldn't even have tried the folded paper routine to fix the door, and who left every household chore to me, and me being just about as handy as Steve, and having to haul out home-repair books with illustrations (none of which EVER looked like the broken whatever that I was trying to fix), I decided to divorce the unhelpful one, buy lots of tools, whether or not I knew how to use them, and take it from there. I live in a fairly rural area of Southcentral Alaska, so I bought a plow truck, a chain saw, a cordless drill--and guess what? Good God, every manly man around thinks I'm one hot chick! A MILF with a plow truck? On the desireability scale, I just blew off the charts!
So now I have my very own manly man who can use his tools--and mine--and squeaky doors are a thing of the past. I like a guy like Steve when I want a night out; but being as tool-clueless as he is myself, I need a wrench for my daily guy. Hats off to Cindy--I wish I were the woman you are! But being the female version of Steve, I want a guy who can git 'er done!
Posted by Joan | April 11, 2007 2:24 PM
Posted on April 11, 2007 14:24
Well, Steve - don't beat yourself up too badly, Mr. Holland has a point.
I am married to Mr. Fix-It. He can fix anything. Hell, he put new brakes on my car...he installed the plumbing in our entire house...he designed and fabricated his own plow for the front of our ATV...he's installed decks on my house, my best friend's house and my best friend's mother's house. If it's broke or needs building, he's your man.
Problem. He NEVER STOPS FIXING AND BUILDING THINGS.
There is always some project to start/work on/finish up. Just once I'd like to sleep past 7am on a Saturday without the whirring of some machinery from the barn. I had to beg him not to mow earlier than 8am for fear that the neighbors might egg our house. I get that he wants to clean the garage - but how many times, exactly, do you need to organize it?? Oy.
So where is the happy medium? I have conned him into my wine habit (he will be going to the Wine Enthusiast Toast of the Town with me at the Field Museum - you all MUST go!)...anyway...just sharing the flip side of the coin.
In the words of Nikka Costa - Everybody's got their something.
Posted by Rebecca (token IT Goddess) | April 12, 2007 8:39 AM
Posted on April 12, 2007 08:39
Don't feel bad, Steve. My wife says I make the best cheese omelet ever. But I'll never know -- I don't like them. And she take out the trash.
Will
Posted by Will Daniel | April 12, 2007 11:07 AM
Posted on April 12, 2007 11:07
Once again, Steve, this woman is a SAINT! Where on Earth did you find her? I expect the halo causes quite a stir when you go out.
But really---sounds like a good match!
Laurel
(who recently got to use the cordless drill to double-deck her closet space when she got her own pad . . . there's something about using power tools that makes me want to eat raw meat and grow hair on my chest even....ooh, you might wanna try that!)
Posted by Laurel | April 13, 2007 5:26 PM
Posted on April 13, 2007 17:26
While I love my Mr. fix-it guy, I'd love him even more if he could actually remember where the tools are kept.
They are in the toolbox. In the closet. In the house where we live. Of which the location apparently is also difficult to remember. I'm not kidding.
I cut him some slack though. He works in creative.
Posted by Tonya | April 25, 2007 6:57 PM
Posted on April 25, 2007 18:57
Years ago I didn't know how to fix anything. I had a girlfriend who demanded I learn in order to be sufficiently manly. I did. Now I can repair anything in the house, rebuild cars, lay irrigation and so on.
Yep, she bugged and nagged and criticized me to get me to be Mr. Macho and so I became that Fix-It Man she always wanted.
I dumped her ass long ago.
Be careful how you go about getting what you want, ladies. :-)
Posted by K T Cat | May 19, 2007 8:35 AM
Posted on May 19, 2007 08:35