In an attempt to be a proper man, I resolved to tackle some DIY projects around the home.
Most guys know how to do this stuff. Men always talk about rewiring things or drywalling.
Guy one: “How was your weekend?”
Guy two: “Well, I had to install some drywall. Also, I did quite a bit of rewiring.”
Guy one: “Really?”
Guy two: “And I rebuilt the transmission in my pickup. It gave me a tremendous sense of well being.”
I’m not so good at these sorts of things. Painting and wallpapering are OK. I once stencilled leaves and flowers onto the bathroom wall in a highly artistic manner. I avoid electrical repairs for fear of burning down the house. Plumbing’s a mystery, although I am passably skilled with the toilet plunger.
My friend Gord is a stone-cold expert when it comes to DIY projects. He just built this fabulous chicken coop. It has an egg-shaped window and a remote-controlled door. The coop is decorated with yellow rooster motifs, which likely appeal to the chickens, who no doubt possess a highly developed aesthetic sense. (This month, Britain’s Daily Mail reported that chickens may be cleverer than toddlers and are “born with an understanding of physics — and particularly structural engineering.” No, I’m not kidding.).
The other day, I mentioned to Gord that my lawnmower does not work properly. After I mowed my lawn, the grass resembled tossed salad.
Gord examined the mower. “When did you last get the blades sharpened?”
“You have to get the blades sharpened?” I said.
He explained regular mower maintenance is essential to getting a crisp flat-top on the lawn. Then he drove away with my mower.
When it was returned, Gord had not only sharpened the blades, he’d removed the duct tape that was keeping the broken metal handle together and repaired it with metal brackets and spot welds. Gord had also topped up the oil, which was dangerously low.
In short, he’d done all the man stuff men are supposed to do.
“That’s OK,” said my wife. “You have other skills. Remember those lovely leaves and flowers you stencilled in the bathroom?”
A week later, she announced that the sink was clogged. My wife resolved to call a plumber.
“No need,” I said manfully. “I’ll fix it myself.”
I tapped the sink. Tapping sometimes fixes stuff. Nothing happened.
A toilet plunger coaxed up some gunk, but the sink remained clogged. I took apart the pipe underneath the sink, cleaned it out with my finger, then screwed everything back together.
“Success,” I said. “Sink’s fixed.”
Unfortunately, leaks had sprouted where the pipe fitted together. I reassembled it several times but it still leaked. So I bought silicone stuff and smeared an enormous amount onto the pipe. It no longer resembled a pipe. It looked sort of dragon-like, with a trailing silicone tail.
And it still leaked.
My wife called in a plumber called Murray. He and I entered the bathroom.
“Who smeared all this silicone stuff on the pipe?” he said.
“My wife did. It looks a bit like a dragon. In fact, I had a mildly frightening dream about it last night.”
Murray considered this. Then he said: “Who did all this stencilling on the wall?”
“Me,” I said.
“Looks nice,” he said.
Murray then fixed the pipe so it doesn’t leak.
My motto is no longer “Do it yourself.” It’s “Call a professional like Murray.” And if you need someone to stencil flowers and leaves on your bathroom wall, who’re you going to call?
Me, that’s who.
