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.

Moved!

Okay, we're all moved in now. I suppose I didn't actually mention the fact that Mike and I were buying a house together, but as I posted photos of the one we had made an offer on, it was fairly obvious. At any rate, the sale went through, and on December 21, we moved into the first house either of us has ever owned, which was all terribly exciting.

We had the worst movers in the world--their strategy was to basically be rude to you and tell you that you weren't doing things right in an attempt to get you to pay more for their alleged difficulty. And they tried to charge us for their own commute time--in other words, they showed up at 4, but said that we should start paying them from 2, as that was when they left their office.

Mind you, the quote they'd given us already had an extra charge for "distance," which I think is fair enough, but I'm not going to pay that AND a spurious charge given at the last minute.

Fortunately, Mike is considerably bigger than the guy who was being mean. I was alone at the flat initially, and when Mike showed up looking like someone whose girlfriend you don't want to make cry, the nasty bloke started being strangely polite.

I felt sorry for the guy working for him, who was obviously a very nice guy trying to make a living. He was embarrassed.

At any rate, we eventually just asked them to dump everything in the living room and GO. No matter how nasty a mover is, with any luck, you never have to see him again, so just get them out of your house as quickly as possible.

I've never paid anyone to help move my stuff before--every other move has been me and possibly a friend or two, with a big van. But having two slipped disks in your back makes you consider the options. All in all, having someone else carry the heavy stuff is a good plan.

Mike has become Mr. Tool Man. To wit:

I had firewood delivered the next day so that we would be able to have roasty fires (the house has two fireplaces) for Christmas. Mike had to rush out and purchase two, count them, TWO axes. He explained that you need the big one for chop-chopping, and a little one for making kindling. Okaaay.

In the process of putting things away, I realised that I needed an additional shelf in one of the kitchen cabinets, and, as there were several boards in the garage that would serve nicely if cut down to size, I asked Mike if he would mind going to the hardware store and picking up a circular saw. He said he could just cut it with a little hack saw, but I pointed out that now that we have a house that will need things doing to it occasionally, it's not like we're never going to want a circular saw.

Now, because he had originally sort of balked at the idea of an extra purchase, I foolishly thought it was safe to send him off to the hardware store ALONE. This is a mistake I will not repeat.

He came back with the circular saw, two hand saws, an extra blade, and a large hammer. Evidently the TWO hammers we already had weren't proper man-sized hammers, and heaven only knows what was wrong with the hand saw.

So he's been happily wandering around finding things to use the tools on and swearing.