When James Taylor sang, “Hey babe, I’m your handyman”, I’ll bet he wasn’t standing in his Crocs holding a roll of duct tape and a staple gun. Granted he was singing about feelings, not faucets, but I’ll take a man who can fix my broken heart over one who can re-caulk my plumbing any day (don’t go there).
The term handy really is a misnomer when it comes to my wonderfully attentive yet home maintenance-distracted husband. In his ‘live in the moment’ mind, any rudimentary effect that can restore basic functionality is definitely the way to go. So in our house, handy has brought us such dazzling, long-term solutions as the raised floor-nail repair:
Or every plumber’s ace up his sleeve, the broken faucet scrunchie-solution:
Yes, I’m reminded daily of my growing need to find a reliable handyman, because clearly I don’t have a live-in.
But as I’m discovering, not every woman needs one. I was talking with a couple last week, friends of mine who wanted to give their 11-year old daughter a key to the house. But their front door lock had been so finicky of late, they were afraid she wouldn’t be able to finesse the key to get in.
As they relayed the story, Duncan snickered to himself, admitting that upon careful examination of the lock, he had emphatically deduced that his best, if not his only option, was to head to Rona to buy a whole new door. Ever the pragmatic partner however, Tina had calmly found a can of WD40 buried under the kitchen sink, sprayed the begeepers out of the keyhole, et voila … problem solved and a whack of dough saved.
Alright, so neither of us are married to Tim the Toolman Taylor. And so what if the lumber Andrew bought 3 years ago to repair our back deck is warping in a moist stack at the back of our yard. These men have heart, and delicious senses of humour … in skillful, bulging doses.
Now that’s my kind of handyman.