>Home Improvement

>After five years of homeownership, I can tell you with sorrow in my heart and shame in my soul that Hubs and I are not House People.

For one thing, Hubs’s knowledge of home repairs is limited to changing lightbulbs, and from the number of broken light fixtures in this house, I’d say even that skill is hit-or-miss. His other responsibility is the yard, and I won’t even go there. No one will, in fact, except the dog and our homeowner’s association president, whose pointed memos on yard maintenance have gotten so hysterical that I half-expect him to bill us for treatment of the nervous breakdown that’s sure to follow.

Of course, I’m no Bob Vila, either. When something breaks, I simply call our handyman, a jolly guy whose own fix-it skills aren’t exactly up to snuff. Six months ago, he broke our downstairs ceiling fan, suggesting it was time for a new one anyway in lieu of an apology. On his next visit, he replaced the kitchen sink faucet and ended up flooding our upstairs bathroom and leaving us with a half dozen enormous stains on our den ceiling. Somehow, the handyman convinced me that this was my fault, although he did offer to drill a few holes in the ceiling free of charge, “to let the water out.”

The ceiling is just one of many pressing concerns we have about this house. An electrician recently informed us we need an eleven-hundred-dollar repair job on our fuse box thingamabob. The doohickey on our ice maker broke and repairing it would probably cost more than the refrigerator is worth. Our neighbor just reported that all the air conditioner units on our street are operating on borrowed time and cost $10,000 per unit to replace. We think we have a leak in our roof. The floors need refinishing and so does the deck. Our gutters need cleaning out. The vinyl siding on the back of the house wasn’t installed right and needs to be replaced.

And so when my 16-year-old came into the kitchen a few nights ago and said, “The ceiling in the den is dripping!” the news merely added itself to the top of a long list of repairs. Heading up to the girls’ bathroom, I quickly surmised that the pipe beneath their sink had a leak. When Hubs appeared behind me to see what was going on, I turned to him and said what wives have been saying to husbands for thousands of years.

“Come on Hubs, do your man thing and fix it!”

To which he masterfully responded, “Call a plumber.”

And that’s how I met Harold.

“I hear you got yourself a problem,” Harold said the next day as he donned a pair of blue plastic booties on my front porch. I led him into the den, pointed to the water stain constellation over our heads, and tried to explain.

“So all of these stains are from the handyman?” he asked.

“No, those right here and the ones over there are,” I said, connecting the dots for him with a pointed finger. “That stain over there appeared last year- I have no idea how, but sometimes it grows. Oh and those in the corner are actually food. Gerber broccoli and chicken.” I looked at him sheepishly.

“Hoo boy,” he said. “Let’s go upstairs.”

As he got to work on the sink, I went back downstairs to keep an eye on the babies. My 16-year-old soon came to join me.

“14 and I were in her room,” she whispered, “and we could hear him in our bathroom and he was saying things like ‘Sweet merciful Jesus!’ and ‘I am not believing this!’ and it was so embarrassing!“

“I found the culprit,” Harold shouted, coming down the stairs. “You got a rat up in there!” As he entered the kitchen, his eyes danced with excitement. “One that’s two-foot long and made of hair!” Harold whipped a soggy mass out from behind his back, obviously enjoying the drama. 16 flinched, but I was unfazed. I wasn’t telling him, but I pull one of those out of my shower drain every six months or so.

“Yep, I see that purty long hair you got,” he crowed to my stepdaughter. “Well, this is what happens when it gets stuck down the pipe!” He held up his hair rodent to the light and cackled. I was struck with a disturbing mental image of Harold’s house, where masses of hair were mounted on the walls like deer heads.

“Now, you got a running toilet in your bathroom,” he said, turning to me. “I can rebuild that for you for $120.”

“Okay,” I said, steeling myself. Lord knows what he’d find in there.

Once the toilet was repaired, Harold convinced me that my washing machine hoses needed replacing. “You got yourself a very dangerous sitch-ee-yay-shun,” he confided. “Them rubber hoses rub up against the machine and if one pops, yer whole house is flooded. Now, I can put some no-burst ones on for $54.95.” Seeing the hesitation on my face, he moved in for the kill. “Yer thinkin, ‘Oh Harold here is tryin’ to make a fast buck,’ but guess how many houses I’ve been to where them rubber hoses have burst?”

“How many?”

“Six,” he said, “In the last two weeks!“

“Do it,” I sighed, “and then get the hell out of here.” Harold just laughed.

After the tubes were in place and the bill was paid up, Harold bid me adieu, but not before giving me some free advice. “Tell them girls of yourn one thing,” he said. “Tell them not to dye their hair!”

“Okay,” I said, baffled.

He moved closer and spoke quietly. “I was at this house over in Donelson where eight girls was livin'” he said, “and I pulled a wad of hair outen the sink that was four. Feet. Long. I asked the girl what the fool they’d been doin’ and she told me ever one of her roomates dyed her hair in that sink!” He paused, this sage of the sewer line, and looked around quickly before continuing. “The dye makes yer hair fall out!” he whispered frantically.

“Okay, Harold, have a nice weekend,” I smiled brightly, put a firm hand on his back and shoved him out the front door.

In the grand scheme of things, I’m sure there’s a reason why Hubs and I aren’t House People. A New Age Freak wise friend once told me that every soul we encounter has something to teach us. Harold taught me not to dye my hair and for that, I’m… wondering how we’re going to pay this fucking plumbing bill.