Mr. DIY

One of the most difficult things about being in a relationship is that you have to be considerate, which sometimes means trying really hard not to laugh when someone else is having a hard time.

I know how frustrating it is when you're working on something, and your tools don't seem to be cooperating, and you keep dropping things, and the inanimate objects around you seem to be conspiring against you. I do. My desire to laugh should not in any way be construed as a lack of sympathetic concerrn.

This is my preface to saying a bit about Mike's new role as handyman about the house. As far as I can tell, "Do it Yourself" is mostly about swearing, and, I must say, Mike seems born to it.

It all started with the new refrigerator. Of course, when the refrigerator arrived, the doors opened on the wrong side, which meant that in order to get something out of the fridge, one would have to leave the kitchen and open it from the hallway. So I asked Mike if he would mind switching it, and he, being the lovely boy he is, agreed.

I remarked to a friend that the constant shouts of "Oh, for f**k's sake!" coming from the kitchen for the next hour did not, in fact, inspire confidence. However, I also knew that if I were to try to move the thing myself, then I would probably become so incensed that I would throw something across the room, and quite probably break the fridge in the process.

So, in spite of all of the swearing, Mike emerged victorious and the fridge emerged unscathed.

A few days later, it was time to put the blinds on the upstairs window. The house has been cleverly designed to have a large window right outside of the bathroom, directly across from the neighbors' windows. Around the third time one of us emerged from the bathroom in without the benefit of pants, we decided it was time to install blinds.

Mike, of course, took on the job, as it involved perching a ladder on the stairs and working with tools. I'd like to point out that, like the good feminist I am, I do not expect Mike to do all of the repairs, installations, and general "handyperson" jobs around the house, but I do try to be realistic about my own abilities (for "abilities" read "klutziness"). I don't do "precarious" very well, and "precarious" mixed with "detail work" is just asking for trouble.

So anyway, there Mike was, balanced on the ladder, working with the blinds that he had measured carefully, cut down to size, verified would fit snugly on the window, and which then promptly refused to fit or cooperate.

I decided to take a shower while all of this was going on, which made it easier to feign disinterest.

From the shower, I heard the following:

"Oh, for f**k's...oh, for f**k's...oh, for f**k's.....SON OF A F**KING WHORE!!!!!!!!"

*stomp stomp stomp stomp*

....pause........

"Honey? Where is the polyfiller [spackle]?"

By this time, I had nearly entirely lost my battle to avoid laughter.

I told Mike that I believed the spackle to be in the garage, and he asked me what was wrong. I said, "Nothing," and he asked why, then, I was crying.

I had a brief debate with myself, wondering whether it would just save us all a lot of trouble if he continued in his misapprehension that my muffled laughter was actually sobbing.

I decided to go with the neutral, "I'm not crying, dear," which he seemed to accept, so our relationship was safe for another day.