A Twist of Humor

This is a column with a twist of humor. A new column will be posted every Monday.

Location: Newfoundland

I was born, raised, educated, and married in Toronto. I moved to Newfoundland twenty some years ago with my wife. So far nobody has asked me to leave. My wife asking me to leave doesn't count.

Monday, October 30, 2006

A Spark Of Genius

I stood there, looking at the kitchen floor in bewilderment. There strewn about lay the dismembered remains of the dishwasher. I hadn’t meant to butcher the dishwasher, but there it was, a bit here, a bit there, a piece under my foot. At the first sign the dishwasher was in distress I had wanted to call in a professional, someone who almost certainly wouldn’t have caused such grisly carnage. However, my wife who after all these years, and all evidence to the contrary, still clings to the hope that I will miraculously turn into a competent handyman. With this hope (delusion) firmly planted in her mind she insisted that I at least try to fix the dishwasher. So I did, much to the regret of the dishwasher.

My wife was once again disappointed in my handyman skills. It has always puzzled me that women, who are the more intelligent, logical, and practical of the species, invariably choose for their husbands men who end up disappointing them in some way. After some thought on the subject, I came to the conclusion that the problem lies not with the women, but rather with the material they have to work with. Women have this idea that when they take a husband in hand they are also taking in hand a superior clay which they can shape and mould into a superb creation. Alas, the clay is usually anything but superior and can not be coaxed into anything other than what it already is.

My wife’s dream man would not be a Galahad riding to her rescue on a white steed, slaying dragons and laying them at her feet. No, he would drive to her rescue in a pickup truck loaded with every tool known to mankind. The driver of the truck would have around his middle a fully loaded tool belt. And unlike me he would know how to use the tools properly.

When a decent interval had passed after the postmortem and burial of the dishwasher my wife suggested I should attend an appropriate shop class at the local community college at night so that I could perhaps acquire some handyman skills. I replied that although I would be more than willing to attend, there was a slight problem. Back in the mists of time when I was in junior high school it was mandatory for boys to take shop classes in woodworking and such things. (I believe a wife instituted this rule.) However, due to a series of unfortunate events I was banned from all shop classes in the Dominion of Canada, if not all of the Commonwealth, for the rest of eternity. So after twenty seven years my wife’s hopes were finally and utterly dashed-I was to remain just a lump of clay.

Even though my wife was disappointed, I was not. Now when something needs to be repaired or built or installed I just have to open the door for Bob or Ted or Reg or whoever we hired to do the job. I no longer have to listen to my wife ask me to do these jobs or ask when will they be done or ask why they aren’t done yet.

I guess that goes to show that even the most imperfect clay can have buried deep down a spark of genius.

© Mike Cook 2006


Blogger Katie said...

What a clever lad! I learned a similar lesson early on: The most hated job in the restaurant I worked in during college was the making of 'the coleslaw'. Unfortunately, I never learned how. Whenever the chef realized this she was always much too busy to teach me...sigh. The job always fell to 'someone else'. Poor me! Well done you! RIP to the dishwasher!

9:47 AM  
Blogger QuillDancer said...

Mike, you may be an old lump of coal, but when you write you shine like a diamond. I loved this story.

Btw, why doesn't your wife take the shop class? This is the 21st century.

5:53 AM  
Blogger omninaïf said...

Very amusing story.

9:15 PM  

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