Lessons in Home Repair

We must have eighteen different screwdrivers, four different hammers, two wrench sets, two drills and enough various other tools to fill three tool boxes. Bob Villa, eat your heart out!

What we don't have is the desire to use them all. Oh, sure, over the years we've done some minor home repairs (my specialty is changing light bulbs), but there are certain things we just won't tackle like plumbing (although my other specialty is Drano. Oh, I can also fix a running toilet, but I usually pretend I can't and make Tim do it), or fix electrical stuff.

This is when you call in the experts, open your checkbook and take out a second mortgage on your house.

All I want is to explain the problem, have it fixed, be told (briefly and succinctly) what they are doing, and then send them on their way so they can go yacht shopping or whatever it is they do with the small fortune they receive for fifteen minutes work.

What I get is lessons in home repair. So far this year, I think I have earned the equivalent of a bachelor's degree.

For example, the guys working on our sound system felt it necessary to remove the sub woofer from the ceiling, show me its inner workings and explain, in excruciatingly minute detail how to adjust it.

Right, I can see it now. We'll be sitting there one night watching Bruce Willis save the world (again), and Tim will turn to me and say, "Hon, I think the sub woofer's a bit off. That last bomb blast could have been more powerful." And, of course, I'll strap on my tool belt, climb right up there and "Bam!" more sub in the woofer.

Or the plumber who insisted last week that I not only watch what he did, but that I take part in it. End result, I can now disassemble the entire shower and faucet in the guest bath, mess with the strength and temperature of the water and reassemble it in fifteen seconds flat. (Wait, this skill might actually come in handy if someone overstays their visit or otherwise ticks me off. Hmmm.)

Or this morning, the guy who came to look at our outdoor lights which have the unfortunate tendency to blink out every night in a random order. (A good swift kick can usually get them back on, but I'm looking for more of a long term and less painful --for me-- solution. And yes, I checked the bulbs -- my specialty, remember?")

First, I had to stand in the ninety-five degree sun and watch as he dug through the flower bed to uncover the wires. Then, I got a crash course in testing the electrical power with a handheld device.

"See," he told me, "it's a ten point five. That's good." (Like I would know what's bad?) Then, he proceeded to drag me around, checking lights, stripping wires and fixing connections all the while lecturing on the finer points of Ben Franklin and his marvelous discovery.

Once again, I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do with this knowledge. Hang a shingle out front? Teach at a trade school? Write a how-to book?

And after all of this, all I can say is: Thank God we don't have a septic tank system, because that is one lesson I never want to learn, and something tells me that with my luck, whoever I called would be sure to have a spare pair of hip waders handy!