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| | LambBasting: Confessions of a Handy Woman
(A Version of this piece
appeared in Family Circle
March 12, 1996).
O.K., I'll admit it. I owned a lifetime membership in the Male-Equals-Mechanical-Wizard Fan Club. Having had one of those good, old-fashioned, traditional-family upbringings, I held to one basic certainty in life: something breaks, a man fixes it.
Even when faced with the misshapen evidence that my own dear father used his prehistoric, saber-toothed pliers to repair my first delicate bracelet wristwatch -- with the result that the bracelet forever looks like it was mauled by cryptonite-toothed sharks -- still, my faith remained unshaken.
Father's mechanical feats, I reasoned, were legendary. He had that Ross Perot approach to mechanical things: "just get under the hood and fix it." He changed the oil, replaced mufflers, adjusted tappets, reset timing, changed spark plugs, built the shed and greased everything that even looked like it might move. And if he couldn't 100% fix it, he "Jerry-rigged" things so they limped along in a state of impaired -- or, more p.c., challenged -- proficiency. But to my childish eyes they were fixed. I slept at night in that secure knowledge.
It's true, my two brothers couldn't differentiate a screw driver from a monkey wrench from a crocus. Still, I held to the belief that it was in the genes. After puberty and the great girls-obsession subsided, I assumed that mechanical aptitude would fall upon them like a mantel.
I, on the other hand, worked at it (especially after the watch incident). I felt I needed a couple more options than Mother's "Bill," when a light bulb burned out.
The first real challenge to my man-equals-mechanical-genius faith came, I'll admit, on my first date when Dream Boat's car quit on a country road. He steadfastly refused to lift the hood. Instead, he ground the battery to a reluctant burp, and then got out and systematically kicked all four tires -- with vigor.
When that didn't work, we spent the next two hours hiking several miles to Gus' Gas Station where Dream called his father. (Certainly, I couldn't respect him the next morning -- or even that night -- so I never dated him again.) But I chose to believe Dream was the exception and not the mechanical-male rule. Just call me Rosy.
After I had waited three anniversaries for my husband to take the helm of the household's mechanical ship, I strongly suggested we make a maiden voyage to the hardware store -- together. Finally, he agreed. Once inside, he assumed that Howdy Dowdy in a high-wind posture, his eyes blinking and blank as a newborn's. I nudged him. He clung to the beige tile like a bad stain. "C-clamps," I whispered. "A Phillips' head screwdriver, a dryer exhaust hose adjustable clamp. Some WD-40." His receiver was out. "Let's start in tools," I enthused. He gave me a robotic nod and began to move like the non-Duracell rabbit. "This way. " I turned him around and directly into a red-vested Ace-pert.
"May I help you," Ace intoned. My husband's mouth moved soundlessly like an oxygen-starved trout. "An adjustable, dryer exhaust hose clamp," I said, at last. "No problem," Ace bellowed in fog-horn clarity. I shut the Spousemeister's jaw with a hand assist and wheeled him after the disappearing red vest.
O.K., so I've grown up. Yes, I still believe there is that rare, isolated, Type A, fix-anything-male-genius out there, just like there are double-jointed Houdini types who can unshackle themselves from chains, straight jackets, and locked trunks at 20,000 leagues. Mr. H. can, of course, build a three-story, 4-bedroom house in a single evening. But you and I aren't apt to meet him. It's my revised theory that some sage pair of perky pigtails spotted him and got him committed before they matriculated from kindergarten. (He married young, and his wife keeps him in.)
As it turns out, one of my brothers -- let's call him George Bob -- became a member of what I've learned is Type B: the He-Spouses who insist they know how to fix anything; will, in fact, take on the most daunting of mechanical challenges like turkeys take to a downpour. Sally's dear husband Ralph Buel is a card-carrying member. At Christmas they splurged on a stereo. Ralph Buel said: "I can install this and save us a bundle." Sally silently turned the pallor of white bread dough.
In a flurry, RB drilled a hole larger than a moose head in their den teak paneling, and laid 310 yards of cable after "setting up" his power tools on Sally's grandmother's antique game table. As the first-stage dust was settling on the pink geraniums, RB paused for a lemonade and noticed the instructions stated in BOLD LARGE TYPE that the entire stereo system was designed to sit -- cordlessly -- on a single bookshelf.
Now, I don't actually know what a bundle costs, but Sally told me the game table, worth $1,250, is ruined; the paneling repair (the best they could do) was $550; the 400 yards of heavy-duty, rock-band-strength cable (which couldn't be returned, since RB had cut it into four and five foot lengths) was $425, and the bill for the subsequent stereo installers was $350.
Then there's Type C, a lively gaggle my other brother calls "Buds." Let's call them Mr. Friendlies. They believe the secret to manliness is in the walk, the talk, and the horsepower. They each own an arsenel of hand-held, 17 hp, 55-pound cordless power drills. Plus three scores of accessories. They display them with aplomb and argue for hours about rpms. They polish them with gusto, and even go to the garage during TV sports commercials to rev them up a couple of times. I did once see my Bro Friendly drill a reluctant screw clean through a two-by-four.
But Type D guys, be aware, deny they are -- dare I say it? - mechanically-geniusly-inept. Closet-quiet are these NOTs. (And, of course, we astute and demure Spousettes must never utter the "i" word.)
Yes, even I have come to grips with the reality that things that screw, snap, or go bang when you flip the switch, aren't necessarily within the male domain. In fact, Hubby and I have made one of those equality-of-work agreements you read so much about in women's surveys and studies: we both work the 11-hour day, then I cook the dinner, get the children to bed, and get things ready for the next day.
After that, I go to the hardware store -- alone -- so I can find that male/female elbow piece with the extra 45-degree turn to replace the clogged and leaking one under the kitchen sink.
He holds the flashlight while I install it!
Copyright 1998. These articles are not to be reproduced or distributed in any form, manner, or medium without the express, written permission of the author.
Sandra E. Lamb is an award-winning, Denver-based author of humor, literary fiction, and nonfiction. You can purchase a copy of her latest book, How to Write It: A Complete Guide to Everything You'll Ever Write at your favorite bookstore, or by clicking Amazon.com here to connect you to Amazon.com or here for BarnesandNoble.com to place your order online.
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