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Dear Bob “This Old House” Vila,
I realize you’re a busy man. Between hosting your own remodeling show, hawking your namesake line of tools on the Home Shopping Network, and other masculine tasks involving laser beam levels and hydraulic screwdrivers, you might deem this plea unworthy of your valuable time. In fact, at this moment, I’m sure you’re rebuilding a 1921 Dutch gambrel in Massachusetts with nothing more than duct tape and a pair of tweezers.
That’s because you’re a “guy.” You wear flannel shirts without a hint of irony. Your tool belt hangs low and sturdy, holstering manly implements made of titanium alloys and whatnot. When you fearlessly brandish a nail gun, people don’t duck. And you have a beard. Men
grow beards.
I, too, have a beard. But that’s where our similarities end. Lately, Bob, my masculinity has been called into question. Yes, I belch, scratch, and kill bugs with the best of them. But when it comes to home repairs, I’m more apt to pick up the phone than the wrench. It’s not that I’m lazy. I garden with gusto and decorate with a flourish not seen since Elsie de Wolfe circa 1923. (Honestly, what’s more manly than a guy, a chaise, and a bolt of toile?)
It’s the tools, Bob. I simply don’t get them. Hammering? Sure, I’ve mastered that complicated action. Often is the Sunday afternoon that I’ve cracked open a cold one after pounding a nail into some manly drywall. “Whew, that was rough,” I’d boast, wiping the sweat from my brow and the dry Riesling from my chin, as I’d admire my man labor, not to mention the lovely Erté serigraph I scored at auction last month, hanging from my freshly hammered nail.
No, it’s the other tools—a mélange of drills, pliers, and shiny sockets—that taunt me from my dusty, rarely opened toolbox. I try, Bob. Honestly. Just last Thanksgiving, the garbage disposal ground to a halt. I slid under the sink, stared at the bloated bladder full of giblets and cranberries, summoned my manhood, and hesitantly reached for a tool.
“What are you doing?!” my father—visiting my home for Thanksgiving dinner—barked, as if rather than fixing the broken mechanism in a manly manner, I was simply poking the disposal with a sharp stick—which, basically, I was, albeit with a shiny pretty one.
“I’m fixing the disposal?” I quizzically replied. “No,” he said. “No, you’re not.” Dad then proceeded to hike his pants, sigh with exasperation, crawl under the sink, and issue the following order: “Go get me an Allen wrench, a two-and-a-quarter socket, some slip joint pliers, a hacksaw, Silly Putty, a dry martini (no olives), and the blood of a nubile virgin that I can offer to the gods of toolology.”
“Allen who?” I replied, my mind throbbing with confusion shortly after “Go get me…”
“Nevermind,” he grunted. See, Bob, men grunt. Men know how to fix broken disposals, stuffed with too much holiday refuse. Men, like you and my dad, know the difference between a socket and a ratchet. And, better yet, they know how to use them.
Even Tom, my partner-in-crime and home repair champion, has given up on me. “Put the hammer down,” he says on a weekly basis, seeing as the hammer is the one tool I’ve mastered and believe will cure all household ailments.
So, what do you say, Bob? You bring the circular saw. I’ll pour the Cristal. After all, my manhood is at stake. I need some serious toolbox tutelage, and you’re just the nationally syndicated TV host for the job. Besides, Martha Stewart already turned me down.
