Objects of our own oppression

So yesterday was Valentine’s Day. After an evening shopping trip, my wife came in and told me she had gotten me a Valentine’s Day gift. I had to close my eyes while she and my daughter held out a target bag for me to peek into. Inside was none other than a Black and Decker rechargeable screwdriver and a stud finder! Don’t get me wrong, I love power tools as long as I can use them on my terms. In this case, this was a gift with a message. A couple of weeks ago my wife asked me to hang a coat rack in the stairwell to our basement. I said I would do it but needed to charge my power drill. A few days later she asked if I could do what she already asked me to do—she’s pretty patient persistent that way. I told her that since we had moved I hadn’t been able to find my power drill. You could argue that I was stalling. I’ll take the 5th and let you form your own opinion.

My wife knows that the power drill we have holds a charge for about 3 screws before it needs to charge again for 8 hours. So the rechargeable screw driver is a good idea. It also represents her way of yet again asking me to put the coat rack up in the stairwell. I fully intend to do that, really. Buying me the gift was yet another well played move in the ongoing politics of power tools in my household.

Over the years, my wife has lamented that I am not as handy as my father. My dad is the king of power tools, making things, and mechanical problem solving. Over the years he worked as a general contractor, plumber and electrician, head of buildings and grounds for my home school district, and maintenance at both IBM and Toshiba. During my life he has built and fixed everything imaginable. He built a house we lived in for 15 years, from the ground up. He is a handy guy. My brother is no less smart and no less handy. He’s got all the tools that a real man should have and not only does he know how to use them…he does use them. So you can see why my wife has such high expectations. I grew up handing the handy their tools so that they could be as handy as they could be. You would think some of it rubbed off. It is not that I am not capable of being handy. I believe I could be just as handy as my dad and my brother.

In fact, I have done handy type things in the past and actually enjoyed them. I made a tool box out of sheet metal and wood in high school shop. Before high school, I made wooden boot pullers. In the more recent past, I built a chicken tractor for our chicken experiment and a little grass shack out of plastic piping for an ice show my kids were in. In our old house I pulled up a linoleum floor and put down a pretty nice tile floor. I can do things like that, and like I said, I can actually derive some satisfaction from doing them.

One problem that keeps me from taking on really complicated handy type tasks is that I am a bit spatially challenged. That is bad when trying to be handy. It is also bad when trying to be an archaeologist. I have to try really hard to tell left from right. It usually comes down to answering one question: which hand do you eat with? Distinguishing east and west is a major intellectual feat for me. I close my eyes and try to picture were the ocean is and where Georgia is. I once staked out an entire archaeological site with east and west transposed. Luckily I figured it out (with some help) before we excavated too much. This same affliction makes it hard for me to find things in complex or confusing situations. There are times where I search and search for an item at the grocery story but never find it. Only to return another day and find it right where I was looking. My wife seems to think this is a male affliction—that all men have a hard time finding things. She also has insinuated that my inability to find things is manufactured to get out of trying to find things. While claiming faulty brain wiring to get out of tasks is a clever idea, I can’t take credit for that one.

More than just that, I know if I show a propensity for handiness my life will forever change. I will be expected to be handy and to pull that handiness out whenever anyone needs it. And it won’t just be at home. Oh no. I’ll be building sets for Peter Pan the ballet, building ramps at the synagogue, and contributing to local barn raisings. This same logic extends to the mere ownership of power tools. If I have ‘em, I’ll be expected to use ‘em. Now, I am a guy and so I can appreciate a good power tool. In fact, I wouldn’t mind owning a jig saw and a skill saw. I own a router and honestly have no idea what I am supposed to do with it. A really nice power drill would be useful. The problem is, if I let it out that I would like those things then Pandora’s Box is wide open and I sow the seeds of my exodus from my own little Garden of Eden of Non-handiness.

I’ve worked hard to carve out some extra hours and bankroll them for the day when I can and want to go on hours long bike rides. If I get power tools or even hint that I might use them, all my hard work and saving is gone. Aren’t economists lamenting that Americans just don’t save anymore? Well, I’m trying to save. Isn’t there a government program out there for me? Where is the program that provides handyman services at low cost or for free so that I don’t have to blow my saved time on handiness?

I say to men of the world: Wake up, rise up, unite! Power tools are the objects of our own oppression. Stop making me look bad by using them.