Wednesday, May 01, 2013

Please, touch my snake, touch it...

I hadn't been married very long when I declared to my husband that I liked tools and that I liked fixing things.

This pleased my husband.  He does not like tools.  He does not like fixing things.  His handyman talents are limited to singing, "If I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the mornin'!" and even then, his voice could use fixing up with duct tape.

Since the early days of my marriage, I have fixed many things about the house and collected many tools that make loud noises.  I've tiled my floors.  I've replaced faucets and lighting fixtures.  I've designed and built furniture, planter boxes, and my backyard gate.  I've removed objects from our toilets, our garbage disposal and our dryer vent.  I've sanded, painted and sealed.  I've stared down clueless hardware store employees when I remind them that I'm the one that asked the question so would you please direct your answer to me instead of my husband?

Every time I've performed a handyman task, I've felt accomplished and sort of burly.  My husband compliments my skills and tells me how very sexy I am wearing my protective goggles.  Then we share a touchy feely type moment, sometimes even before I wash the grease from my hands.

Today though, there was no touchy feely.  There was only washing and nausea and regret.  Today's project left me with the more than distinct impression that I should have never taken over all the fix-it jobs around here. 

See, if Cousin It and Mr. Hankey the Christmas Poo got together and had a baby, today I found it abandoned in the trap of my slow draining master bathroom sink.  Congratulations!  It's a slimy hair wad the size of a soda can!



But then, there was, the, smell.

I've attempted to tastefully describe this odor several times.  I even laid down for an hour to rest my head between attempts, and there is no way to describe how overcoming the smell was except to say that I was absolutely not sticking my head in the same bucket I'd drained Baby Hairball into in case my gagging got serious.

I have never touched anything so disgusting in all my life and I've changed babies diapers after they've eaten Froot Loops and caught their puke in my hands.

It was as I was disposing of the clog in the outside trash can that I wondered what the hell I was thinking, so young and so newlywedded, for volunteering as Mrs. Handyman?  Sure, it's awful fun to go around grunting with your oscillating tool but if that means I always get the clogged sinks and backed up toilets, I really should demand that my husband do more than hold my level and drool when I put my screwdrivers in the back pockets of my jeans.

There was that one time that my garbage disposal suddenly backed up and sprayed sink vomit on nearly every surface of my kitchen, including the ceiling, and Justin helped me clean that up and then he used his muscles to plunge the hell out of it so I wouldn't have to get under that sink....

Oooh, I think I got my touchy feely back.

1 comment:

  1. My gag reflexes are going because I know exactly the mutant offspring of Cousin Itt you are referring to. GROSS! Like you, I am the Ms. Fixit around my house (except the plumbing...my husband does that and I'm the gagging assistant). Drain issues are freaking nasty! Thanks so much for the visual. :)

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