I am married to the ultimate home handyman, nicknamed Dr Bandaid because he can “patch” up anything temporarily and occassionally he will actually fix it lol. There is nothing he will not attempt; electricals, plumbing, carpentry, motor mechanics, tiling, cementing, swimming pool maintenance, the list goes on and on…nothing is sacred Ask him about any trades work and he will tell you that it’s easy and that it won’t cost a cent, “I have it all under control”. Interpret that into regular English and it will read like “I want to do it and it may take six months but we can always rebuild the rest of the house around it lol”His favourite line is “I can do that…it’s simple”. That’s a line that sends horrors to the pit of my stomach in double fast time. I once asked Dr Bandaid how he cold possibly know anything about trades work given that he had never been a tradesman. “Are you kidding” he said. “My father taught me many skills”. I might add that his father was not a tradesman either but we won’t go there.
One weekend the washing machine stopped towards the end of the wash cycle and would not work no matter what I tried. “I’ll call a washing machine repair man” I announced.
“NO WAY ! I can fix that, it’s simple” Ohhhhh those dreaded words. Anyway, Mr J conversed with the neighbours, one is an aeronautical engineer, another is a computer programmer and the third is a triage nurse. They all agreed that it was agitating problem linked to the wiring. I enquired as to why he would consult them and he replied that they owned washing machines as well. Now that makes sense (not) why didn’t I think of that. Mr J was convinced that the repairs would take no longer than about thirty minutes, brought his toolbox and cordless screwdriver in from the garage and headed off into the laundry. I grabbed the yellow pages and headed off to the study to locate a local QUALIFIED tradesman ready for when the inevitable happened. I tried to be as tactful as possible and suggested that we should call the tradesman first to save time however John mentioned something about my not understanding about money or men and their need to be the king of their own castle. Loosely translated that means “I will not pay a competent and skilled TRADESMAN when I might be able to bodgie my way to a fixed washing machine”. When I reminded him that he had no previous washing machine repairs experience he acted flustered and insulted with a little boy pout. I could see the usual home handyman symptoms appearing in his features. He was becoming more and more confident as the cordless drill wizzed and zoomed into action. His eyes became glazed, he had a smile from ear to ear and colour infused his cheeks. Ohhh well, I’ll give him two hours and he’ll want to call in a professional by then.
It is amazing how power tools inspire such self-assurance and certainty in men, have you ever seen a grown male holding a deafening power-saw when cutting a branch off a tree? OMG I swear they go off to Arnold Schwarznagger land. The thrill of the revving and roaring of power and strength going through their hands is like an addiction; an addiction which Mr J knows all about lol. I could hear the power serge (I mean cordless drill) loosening and removing the screws from the back of the washing machine; the bang when the sheet of metal being held in place , fell to the laundry floor was a dead give away. It then landed sideways against the door and I could picture the new dent in the paint work. “Would you like me to ring for the repairman yet?” I asked purely in moral support of course. There were a few choice adjectives in reply, which the Internet will not permit me to use on here. When I stuck my head into the laundry I was presented with an array of hoses leaking water everywhere and a barrage of electrical wires. I decided not to go shopping right at that point in case the two came into contact with each other and I was needed to ring an ambulance. Mr J assured me that he had everything under control and that this was easier than he expected…that dreading sensation was back again. I potted around for several hours in the garden and once again stuck my head into the laundry only to find him sitting in the middle of the floor surrounded by approx. one thousand washing machine parts. “Would you like me to ring for the repair man yet?”
“You have no faith in me” was his reply. “Go ahead, ring your tradesman, I hope he charges you like a wounded bull”. I ran (I repeat RAN) to get my phone and organise a time with the repairman; just in case Mr J changed his mind.
Well Rusty the Repairman turned up several hours later he took one look at the state of the laundry. Bloody hell was his only comment, he seemed perplexed and I immediately felt both sorry and embarrassed for Mr J, who was busy declaring that he had been on the brink of diagnosing the problem when his ungrateful wife intervened. “What exactly happened here” asked Rusty and I replied with the only answer that popped into my head…”thieves, there is a local black market for machine parts and they are currently targeting this suburb I believe.” Rusty stared at the machine parts while stroking his beard and occasionally squatting to pick up a part of varying shape or size. When I looked again Rusty was replacing the last of the parts and asked why John just hadn’t cleaned the filter. The filter? responded John. Rusty the repairman tapped the hose against the sink’s edge until a filthy ball of grey sludge dislodged. “Your filter was completely blocked, OK I am finished here now….that will be $70.00 thank you”
The dent in the door is still not repaired and the scratched floor tiles remain a testament to Mr J's handyman washing machine antics however, the washing machine works just fine and Rusty was ever so kind in giving me several fridge magnets with his phone number on, much to Mr J's disgust. I believe this “fix-it” process to be a male thing, a king-of-his-castle syndrome of some sort. Now I just need to find a cure for it lol.
One weekend the washing machine stopped towards the end of the wash cycle and would not work no matter what I tried. “I’ll call a washing machine repair man” I announced.
“NO WAY ! I can fix that, it’s simple” Ohhhhh those dreaded words. Anyway, Mr J conversed with the neighbours, one is an aeronautical engineer, another is a computer programmer and the third is a triage nurse. They all agreed that it was agitating problem linked to the wiring. I enquired as to why he would consult them and he replied that they owned washing machines as well. Now that makes sense (not) why didn’t I think of that. Mr J was convinced that the repairs would take no longer than about thirty minutes, brought his toolbox and cordless screwdriver in from the garage and headed off into the laundry. I grabbed the yellow pages and headed off to the study to locate a local QUALIFIED tradesman ready for when the inevitable happened. I tried to be as tactful as possible and suggested that we should call the tradesman first to save time however John mentioned something about my not understanding about money or men and their need to be the king of their own castle. Loosely translated that means “I will not pay a competent and skilled TRADESMAN when I might be able to bodgie my way to a fixed washing machine”. When I reminded him that he had no previous washing machine repairs experience he acted flustered and insulted with a little boy pout. I could see the usual home handyman symptoms appearing in his features. He was becoming more and more confident as the cordless drill wizzed and zoomed into action. His eyes became glazed, he had a smile from ear to ear and colour infused his cheeks. Ohhh well, I’ll give him two hours and he’ll want to call in a professional by then.
It is amazing how power tools inspire such self-assurance and certainty in men, have you ever seen a grown male holding a deafening power-saw when cutting a branch off a tree? OMG I swear they go off to Arnold Schwarznagger land. The thrill of the revving and roaring of power and strength going through their hands is like an addiction; an addiction which Mr J knows all about lol. I could hear the power serge (I mean cordless drill) loosening and removing the screws from the back of the washing machine; the bang when the sheet of metal being held in place , fell to the laundry floor was a dead give away. It then landed sideways against the door and I could picture the new dent in the paint work. “Would you like me to ring for the repairman yet?” I asked purely in moral support of course. There were a few choice adjectives in reply, which the Internet will not permit me to use on here. When I stuck my head into the laundry I was presented with an array of hoses leaking water everywhere and a barrage of electrical wires. I decided not to go shopping right at that point in case the two came into contact with each other and I was needed to ring an ambulance. Mr J assured me that he had everything under control and that this was easier than he expected…that dreading sensation was back again. I potted around for several hours in the garden and once again stuck my head into the laundry only to find him sitting in the middle of the floor surrounded by approx. one thousand washing machine parts. “Would you like me to ring for the repair man yet?”
“You have no faith in me” was his reply. “Go ahead, ring your tradesman, I hope he charges you like a wounded bull”. I ran (I repeat RAN) to get my phone and organise a time with the repairman; just in case Mr J changed his mind.
Well Rusty the Repairman turned up several hours later he took one look at the state of the laundry. Bloody hell was his only comment, he seemed perplexed and I immediately felt both sorry and embarrassed for Mr J, who was busy declaring that he had been on the brink of diagnosing the problem when his ungrateful wife intervened. “What exactly happened here” asked Rusty and I replied with the only answer that popped into my head…”thieves, there is a local black market for machine parts and they are currently targeting this suburb I believe.” Rusty stared at the machine parts while stroking his beard and occasionally squatting to pick up a part of varying shape or size. When I looked again Rusty was replacing the last of the parts and asked why John just hadn’t cleaned the filter. The filter? responded John. Rusty the repairman tapped the hose against the sink’s edge until a filthy ball of grey sludge dislodged. “Your filter was completely blocked, OK I am finished here now….that will be $70.00 thank you”
The dent in the door is still not repaired and the scratched floor tiles remain a testament to Mr J's handyman washing machine antics however, the washing machine works just fine and Rusty was ever so kind in giving me several fridge magnets with his phone number on, much to Mr J's disgust. I believe this “fix-it” process to be a male thing, a king-of-his-castle syndrome of some sort. Now I just need to find a cure for it lol.
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