Wanted: Handy Man/House Husband: Must Love Books

I’m not quite sure when it first appeared in my subconscious. Maybe it started to appear about the same time I was trying to teach the triplets how to drive. Bullet Hole’s Curb-Climbing School of Driving. As I found myself grabbing the steering wheel, jamming my foot against the floorboards searching in vain for a non-existent brake and extracting my fingernails from the dashboard in triplicate, the first glimmers of ‘I sure could use a man around the house’ sentiments began. I shrugged it off. Well, as best I could wearing a cervical collar. This, too, shall pass, I told myself. And I moved on.

Then it came time to buy cars for those licensed drivers and it happened again. I found my head beneath the hood of a 1984 Mercury Grand Marquis looking at the engine components with no clue what I should be looking for. Or at. If there isn’t a puddle of oil or some neon green liquid beneath the car that wasn’t there when I parked it, I’m pretty much good to go. “It’s only got 53,000 miles on it,” the salesperson told me. “It belonged to the great-aunt of the owner of the lot and she hasn’t driven it in years.” Later, after I bought the car, I was to discover why. As I wrote out a check for valve cover gaskets, new brakes, a water pump, and a new oil pan, I had to wonder if I’d have been ripped off if I’d had a male with me. Car dealers so like to screw with women. Well, you know what I mean.

Maybe it would be nice to have a man around the house.

Then, the floods of 2007 hit and I was up to my knees in cold water, going through my basement in hip waders and the thought occurred to me again--among a lot of other not-so-nice thoughts. I sure could use a man around this house. I sucked it up--both the water and my nerve--and reminded myself I was too set in my ways after all these years to consider bringing a man into the mix at this late date. With an independent streak so wide they can see it from the space shuttle, the idea of being accountable to someone other than the Big Guy upstairs didn’t sit well.

At the time of my divorce many years ago now, I promised myself I’d devote my time and energy to raising my four kids and focus on their needs. And frankly, after my first ride on the marriage mobile, the last thing I wanted was another go round. I was still reeling from the last one. Plus there was the ratio of parent to child thing to consider. There just wasn’t enough ‘me’ to go around as it was. And that fact that the only guy who would take on a divorced mother and four children would probably turn out to be a pedophile I’d have to hurt real bad also factored into my decision to go it solo.

Still a series of elements had me reconsidering. Like the leaves that are hanging out of the gutters taunting me day in, day out. And the dead tree in the back yard that I know someone who is competent with a chain saw (so not me) could make short order of. And the dining room that needs new laminate. Or the kitchen that needs new everything. Or the lawn mower that refuses to start.

Hmm. Maybe I could use a man around here.

I thought about it long and hard. (Uh, that’s not meant to be a lewd reference, folks.) I thought about being able to come home from work and wash my face and get into grubbies and not have to deal with issues like, “Does this make me look fat?” Or, alternatively, “horribly unattractive?” And the fact that I can get by with just general maintenance when it comes to ‘body work’ rather than keeping the old chassis spit-shined and polished all the time. And the reality of all that ‘me’ time I’ll have when the kids leave the nest next fall.

Then I consulted a friend. “If something happened to your dear husband, you’d get married again, wouldn’t you?” I asked. She reached out and felt my forehead.

“Wouldn’t you?” I pressed.

She slapped me upside the head to make her point.

Message received.

Yesterday as I left to walk to work and I noticed a long, green trail of radiator coolant running down the driveway from my daughter’s car and into the road.

Hmm. Know any handy man types? Just in case I change my mind...

And remember. He must love books!

~Bullet Hole~