Mr. Fix-it

You can’t say that I’m not handy. If I put my mind to it, I can pretty much do whatever needs to be done. But that’s the thing; it really needs to be done. I don’t go round the house searching for things to improve. If you were to show me a bathtub that holds water, I would say that was one fine bathtub. Show the same tub to Paul and he would find eighty seven things about it that need to be fixed; things like the yellow caulking or the rust spots or the gouges on the bottom of the tub that make it look like a desperate dog in need of a pedicure was trapped in it for a weekend; cosmetic things. Are you able to wash yourself in it? Alrighty then.

I’m not going to waste my precious time and energy on something that does not want to be changed. Last I noticed the bathtub was not aspiring to become the sink or the toilet. Although, I can’t imagine anything wanting to become a toilet, but people choose to become proctologists, so I suppose anything is possible. The bathtub is perfectly happy the way it is. Some might call it grime, but I call it patina.

Paul does not like patina.

I was perfectly content to leave the metal soap dish in our tub on top of the rust spot. Even though we don’t use bar soap, I thought the dish was a nice nostalgic touch. More importantly, it served its purpose as a cover up. It was left by the previous owner, who was probably a lot like me; someone who was comfortable with patina.

But when Paul installed the body soap and shampoo dispensers and purchased an inventory of those products that would last us one thousand Silkwood showers I knew the soap dish would soon be history. And with the soap dish gone the tub would reveal a pock mark too great for Paul to ignore.

I tried to divert his attention by painting the bathroom vanity, and did a pretty good job too. I just wish I remembered to paint all of the sides. While he was in the shower taking inventory of everything that was wrong with the bathtub, he glanced at the vanity.

“Uh, sweetie, did you forget something?” He shouted from the shower.

I didn’t really forget. I just couldn’t figure out a way to paint the side of the vanity that faced the tub. Who was going to see it from that angle anyway? I’ll tell you who, Paul.

Shortly after that, Paul made an appointment to have the bathtub refinished, and since we had to move the vanity in order for the refinisher to take care of the bathtub, he reasoned that there was no use in putting the old vanity back in its place, or the faucet, or the shower doors. I made certain not to stand around the bathroom to avoid being replaced too, because truth be told, I have a little patina on me.

While the bathtub was being refinished we had to shower at the gym around the corner. On this particular occasion, Paul made a comment about a young guy’s arms and how he would like to develop his own to look the same.

If you are at all the insecure type, you should probably not workout at a gym where the average age of the member is roughly half of your own age. Furthermore, you should not take showers at said gym, lest you begin to compare your body to a newer model.

“So, you liked his arms, huh? I’m sure he’s on the juice.” I said while throwing in an accusing look for good measure.

“They look natural enough to me.” He wasn’t even willing to give me that.

“But, I love my mono-pack” He said smiling while rubbing my belly. I could tell he meant it too. Maybe a little patina on the things you love does enhance the look. But, I’m not taking any chances. I’m pretty handy so I think I can make some improvements; another mile on the treadmill, another repetition.  Now I need to work on wanting to change.


P.S. How do you like my comic strip?  Never took a single drawing class!

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Divine Design

HGTV has warped my sense of reality. In the same amount of time that it takes me to consume half a package of raw cookie dough and a bottle of wine, the designers accomplish truly amazing things with imagination, a dash of design trickery and a little elbow grease. And they look pretty damn good doing it. When did carpenters begin to look like GQ cover models?


I am not sure if it was the sugar rush or the alcohol, but at the end of one show, I was certain that Paul and I could do the same thing, if not better than those pretty boys. With just a budget of $2,000 I was positive that we could renovate our Boston condo. My thinking was that the renovations featured on TV were much larger than our 497 square feet of “dated, but good bones” space. Bring on the parade of young, buff carpenters and paint chip samples!

The term “Reality” TV is a little loose. I expected young muscled guys with good hair.  What showed up at our door, when they showed up, was more like something from “The Hills Have Eyes”; Science experiments that have gone terribly, terribly wrong. I would receive an e-mail from my friends, Sam and Cary after each appointment; “WELL??” the impatient subject line would state. I knew what they were expecting: “Dear Penthouse, I never thought this would happen to me….” What I was crafting in my mind was: “Dear Better Business Bureau, I never thought this would happen to me…”

When it came to picking out paint colors and furniture it was a breeze. Paul gave me a choice of two and when I started to pick the wrong one, he would gently guide me towards the other. “Pookie, you have the ‘vision’, I’m just the labor”. He said. I basked in the glow of my superior design skills, while Paul demolished, constructed and rebuilt our condo. The budget of $2,000 was not close; however, it was a multiple of $2,000.

HGTV was not there for our renovation, but I have a vision of them filming a segment on our renovated space. The film crew van would circle the block one hundred times looking for a parking space. Cue the doorbell sound while Paul and I graciously welcome the host, “Welcome to our new home.” We say. The irritated sweaty host replies “Makeup!”, because he has just climbed four flights of stairs.

“OK, Mr. Dameron, let’s see the rest of your space”. The host says. “Oh, this is pretty much it.” I reply. Giving the camera man the universal “cut” signal the host, clearly not happy says “Look, Mr. Dameron, when you filled out the online form for submission, you indicated that this was a ‘Spacious’ condo remodel!” A little embarrassed I say “Well, I’m a gay man, have you seen our online dating profiles? This is about as truthful as it gets, and in terms of size…” The host cuts me off. “Just show me the effing water view!”  I crowd the crew into our bedroom and say “OK, if you can just stick the camera out that window and just a skoach to the left, you’ll catch a glimpse of the pool if you look real hard….” I turn around just in time to see the door slam behind the host. But, I don’t care; because it’s the fourth Wednesday of the month and I know their van has been towed.

It may just be 497 square feet of Martha Stewart paint, Ikea cabinetry and refinished hardwood floors in a fourth floor walkup. But it’s our 497 square feet of heaven in the city. And I married the young buff carpenter.

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