All of a sudden, I'm noticing all the things that need repairs in my house. Could it be that I'm finally becoming more observant, more tuned in to my surroundings, more conscious that the state of one's living quarters speaks volumes about the state of one's psyche?
Sure, it could be any of those things. Could be, but it's not. My friend just got a lead on a new handyman service, and she immediately passed it on to me. I have no idea what they charge, have neither seen nor heard testimonials about the quality of their work. Don't care. All I know is it's a group of moonlighting firemen from a nearby suburb. Oh my. I think I'm having my first hot flash.
I've spent a good part of the last two days going through my house, inch by inch, making a list of items in need of some fixing. Sure, there are the big ticket, obvious problems, like the rutted driveway and the cracked fluorescent light covers and the leaky faucets and the scratched up door frames (thank you Manny). But I never realized how many other hidden flaws lay lurking beneath the surface, flaws that need the immediate attention of a few hot, virile firemen and their hoses. I mean handymen.
There's the little knob from the kitchen cabinet that's come unscrewed, and lord knows I'm not going to risk ruining my manicure trying to screw it back in. There are the bulbs in my ceiling fan that need replacing. I'm all about sacrifice in the name of being cautious, and I'll certainly agree to tolerate a few firefighters in my bedroom, just so I don't get electrocuted. And there's the bathroom mirror that has, in recent months, depicted me as a worn out middle aged woman with cracks in her skin. I'm gonna need the chief and his big old axe for that one.
Yes, there is certainly much to be done. I'm going to take a break from my closet cleaning and rescue a few tight mini skirts from the discard piles. Thank goodness I didn't give away the slutty wedges with the big blue polka dots.
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