My manhood. That’s what’s at risk here. All because of a busted toilet.
I’ve been a man my entire life, since I stopped being a boy, at any rate. (Yes, I am aware there are those who contend I never did stop being a boy, but I don’t listen to my ex-wives and neither should you.)
Being a man comes with certain responsibilities. Among these are a) taking out the trash, b) opening car doors for your true love, and c) fixing stuff around the house. I am a trash-takng-out machine! But my talent with regard to home repair projects has traditionally been somewhat suspect.
I’m thinking here about stuff like the storm windows that fell out and the porch light that nearly electrocuted my most recent ex-wife (which, all things considered, might not have been an entirely bad thing). The horror stories surrounding my home improvement efforts are myriad and terrifying.
But I’m a man with tools and I am constrained by the dictates of my sex to use them.
Incompetent as I am, I have always been at least slightly more competent than the person to whom I was married at any given moment. My wives have all been cut from a similar, traditional cloth when it comes to gender roles.
I’m not talking the “Me Tarzan You Jane!” 1950s white male reality here. My past relationships have all been enlightened and liberally spiced with feminist ideology; I like strong women, after all. Yet in each case, when it comes to fixin’ stuff, I’m da man.
Until now. I’m with Lori now. And while I may still look like da man, I’m no longer sure that’s the case.
Why? Because of the busted toilet, that’s why.
A few days ago the little flusher thingy (sorry for the technical jargon) broke. Inside the tank, there is a plastic tube thingy attached to a metal arm and copper ball thingy which, when properly adjusted, allow the toilet to flush.
All that stuff broke.
I was going to fix it. Really. This despite the fact my plumbing projects often wind up resembling that Three Stooges episode in which Larry, Moe and Curly imprison themselves in yards of leaky copper pipe.
But Lori beat me to it.
She has tools of her own, see, and not the cute little “homemaker” tools in a pink case. They’re the real deal. I’m talking Milwaukee, Snap-On, Bosch. The good stuff. She also has the skills to go with them. In less time than it would have taken me to strip some bolts and bust some pipe, Lori fixed the toilet.
She also can handle electrical work, though she’s promised she’ll give me first crack at any wiring projects that come up. I get the feeling it’s a pity thing.
I suppose I could demonstrate my prowess in the kitchen, but Lori’s also a better cook than me. A lot better.
It’s depressing. And worrisome. I need something I’m better at and I need it now. My manhood is on the line here.
Maybe I’ll take up ballet.
I wonder if Lori can dance.
mtaylor@staffordgroup.com
(616) 548-8273
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