My husband, the handy man
Is extremely stubborn and conveniently forgetful. In short, he’s a pill.
In spite of that, he can fix things. Let me clarify - he is willing to give it a try. Even if it requires taking the car apart bolt-by-bolt and looking inside the gutted shell only to scratch his head and say “huh, I thought this would be a two minute project”. Wait, He tore the car apart out of curiosity, not to fix anything. No need to discuss his constant desire to pull things (everything) apart simply to see how it operates, car engine and all. I’ll save that thrilling information for another post.
Adorned in a Binford tools tee shirt and probably a nice pair of pants and new shoes, no job is too dirty for my hubby. Many wars have ignited from conversations like “why the bloody hell are you wearing your nice pants while investigating the crawl space?” or “in THOSE shoes? You are pouring cement in THOSE shoes?” Whatever catastrophes Mr. Fix-it causes, he does get the job done. But not necessarily in a timely manner, because when you add engineer to the title of handy man the simplest of projects can turn into a day of reinventing the wheel. Yet when the job is done we usually all love it. Except for that time he made an art bin from scratch. An art bin to store all my paint supplies and canvases. That thing ended up weighing 20 tons and never left the spot it was constructed at. I think the darn thing is still there, cupboards and all. I heard that the current owners of our old house use the resident art bin as a bomb shelter.
“Twice as good for half the price” is what will be engraved on his tombstone. Right under a stick figure image of a man mummy wrapped in a dozen stands of twinkle lights while stapling his shirt to the roof.
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