It takes a while to get domesticated once you get married. It’s been a year and a half now since I became a husband, a word I still cannot type without a shudder (Dagwood Bumstead! Ward Cleaver!), but the day does not go by that I don’t add some useful tidbit to my collection of household lore.
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The reason we were dealing with nails in the first place is that I was installing some cabinets in our so-called den. This consists of a large empty room with one chair and a cable TV jack in it. We think of it as the Zen approach to family recreation. We don’t have a TV, we have the idea of a TV. Unfortunately, there is only so far you can take this concept with a bunch of smart-ass relatives, so we’re putting in furniture and whatnot as the cash dribbles in.
To mount the cabinets I employed the usual masculine techniques. I got wood chips and sawdust all over everything and swore a lot. The way I see it, you don’t make a mess on the job, you’re just not working. In keeping with this philosophy, if you lose a few nails in the rug, no big deal. Walk around in your bare feet for a few days and bingo, they turn up.
After having a few words with John, I decide I will fix the vacuum cleaner myself. I am not totally unqualified to do this. In college I spent a summer repairing power tools and what the hell, you get the covers off them and they all look alike. So I go out to the vacuum cleaner store and buy some parts and go home and set to work.
“Life is a process of exploration by which we grow and change,” I say.
I did not regularly read Anna Quindlen’s column when it appeared in the paper. I have nothing against her; she is a fine writer. It’s just that she is so . . . female.
What’s more, judging by the experience of the last two hours, not only am I a Husband, I am an inept Husband. My wife, to be sure, thinks my attempts at being Mr. Fixit are cute, provided they don’t cost any money.
