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by
Liz Morrison
I am
not one of those do-it-yourself lesbians that can walk into
a hardware store, go right to the item I need, purchase it,
take it home and then fix something with it. I just don't
have the Home Depot recessive gene. This is really
unfair. I have friends who can build shelves, replace the
inner workings of a toilet, and install lighting. They
own all kinds of power tools from menacing looking saws to
blowtorches to power drills. Some even have more than
five kinds of screwdrivers. And wrenches - don't even
get me started. These they have sorted by kingdom, phylum,
genus, and species.
The irony is I own lots of tools. Some were given to me as
gifts by gay male friends who assumed I'd know what to do
with them. Others I bought for myself because, as a homeowner,
I felt I should own tools, even if I didn't know, specifically,
what they're for.
These shiny new hammers and wrenches sit in my shed waiting
for the day that my genetic load will realize its full potential.
Every once in a while, when something breaks in the
house, I'll visit my lonely tools and attempt to use them.
Sometimes, if the problem is relatively minor - like
a loose screw - I'll determine if it's a Phillips or a flat
head issue and, with a couple of quick twists of the wrist,
I'll save the day. But when things get complicated,
I'll make a phone call.
On the rare occasion that I do venture into Home Depot, which
feels like an enormous airplane hangar full of mysterious
gadgets, the people in the orange aprons ignore me. They're
used to seeing confident, tool-savvy lesbians who need no
assistance. I, on the other hand, spend most of my time
either staring in awestruck wonder at all the different product
choices, or fighting off a panic attack. Once I track down
a store employee, I'll listen to their convoluted explanation
of the product and its uses, and then beg them to come home
with me to make the repair. This never works.
I end up buying the item, going home, reading the instructions,
and then calling one of my tool belt-wielding friends in desperation.
She'll come over, shake her head in disbelief at my
total ineptitude and give me the "watch and learn"
speech. This never works either.
I'm just not genetically programmed to fix things. It's
not that I'm lazy or too precious, I'm just out of my element.
Having a natural aptitude for home improvement is a
gift. I'm really good at other things, like editing
bad grammar.
Another reason I wish I had that coveted recessive gene is
IKEA furniture. I am about to redo my home office and
everything I need - desk, file drawers, bookshelves and storage
units - comes in two or three cardboard boxes containing about
10,000 pieces. Everything from that store (excluding the Swedish
meatballs) contains an overwhelming number of screws, nuts,
bolts and brackets. I would sooner take a stock tip
from Martha Stewart than to subject myself to the insanity
and frustration of putting together IKEA furniture
But, yet again, most of the women I know can assemble that
cryptic Nordic furniture in less than an hour - blindfolded.
And they rarely need to use those ridiculous instructions
that are either in Swedish or resemble plans for the White
House security system. All they require is a power drill,
a power screwdriver, and a pizza.
When I came out, all those years ago, one of my straight friends
joked, "Just think of all the money you'll save on home
and car repairs." Did she think that one strike
of the Sapphic lightning bolt enabled me with special powers?
If that's true and Home Depot is actually the Lesbian Holy
Grail, I guess I'd better either sign up for their how-to
classes or take my name off their gift registry.
Liz
Morrison is a San Diego freelance writer.
©
Liz Morrison, All Rights Reserved
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