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I am a fucking p—-

Screen Shot 2019-01-24 at 9.50.56 AM

So the other day my wife wrote a terrific piece about being a handy, informed woman of 2019, yet always having contractors ask for her husband. You can read it here. Truly, it’s great.

Well, here’s the other side of the coin …

I’m a fucking pussy.

I know … I know—it’s not cool to use the term “pussy” to describe feeling like a useless, replaceable sack of un-handy shit. But, in my deep despair, cut me a break.

I feel like a fucking pussy.

All around our house right now, there are men working to fix a once-beautiful little place that’s been slowly falling off a cliff. They arrive with power tools, with drills, with myriad steel objects I fail to recognize. They wear dirty clothes, often with rips along the hem lines. They have soiled boots, thick socks. They walk with struts, curse audibly, take a lunch break and play cards for cash. They are, in a very traditional sense, men’s men.

I, on the other hand, write books.

I sit here in my flip-flops and baseball cap, typing away. I can’t answer any of their questions; can’t really understand the intricacies of what they’re saying. My skills, handy-wise, can be boiled down to:

• Changing tires

• Changing oil, checking air pressure

• Sorta figuring out what’s wrong with the toilet

• Lugging around heavy stuff

• Sawing

And, eh, that’s about it.

Truth be told, while I 100 percent understand the wife’s frustration over being overlooked, I wonder if she gets how it feels to have the contractor now say, “Is your wife here?” It’s sort of a gut punch—even though it’s a warranted gut punch. Even though it shouldn’t be a gut punch.

I’m my own Frankenstein.

A man without tools.

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