Home improvement

One of the things about home ownership is that you are responsible for your own repairs. I admit that I am not overly handy at these things. I am capable of unscrewing a light fixture to change a bulb, even while balancing on a ladder; and I can hammer a nail into a wall—but I can’t guarantee that it’s the right kind of hammer for that type of wall, or that whatever I hung won’t come crashing down in a few minutes.

When my father comes over, he usually finds something that needs to be done: a picture to hang, a chip in the bathtub to caulk. I admit I save the things for him that I either don’t know how to do or don’t have the tools for. (In my toolbox, I own: one hammer, one steel measuring tape, two standard screwdrivers, one wrench, one Phillips head screwdriver, one set of socket wrenches, one pair of pliers with red handles, assorted nails and screws that my dad shopped with me for at Home Depot because “it’s good to have them on hand”, and some duct tape.)

My tools are all hand-me-downs. When the husband of some elderly family friends died, his wife offered us anything we wanted from his enormous workshop. He had at least four of everything. I chose the socket wrench set because it came in an adorable green metal case that looked just like a lunchbox. I used the wrenches to take apart and move my bed more than once in college, in blatant violation of dorm rooms. It made me feel very Rosie-the-Riveter.

But I don’t have an instinct for repairs. Most of the time I wouldn’t know where to begin. I believe this stems back to junior high when we did a six-week rotation of wood shop and metal shop as part of “the wheel” of required electives (back when there was a budget for electives). I was terrified of the equipment, more so when the shop teacher (who used to invite students, mostly girls, into his office to view pictures of his horses during class—I believe it was innocently done, but still…) shouted cautionary tales over the sound of sawing, of careless students getting their fingers cut off because their attention wandered. I was so frightened of amputation that I didn’t even finish all the class projects, but I got an A anyway. I made a very crude birdhouse in wood shop that fell apart many years ago, and a welded tin basket with a curved handle that I still have somewhere. After that, I didn’t want to get anywhere near sharp blades or dangerously hot metal. No, thank you.

But I’m an adult now. I am worldly and experienced and capable, and I can fix things at my own house. Right?

The sink in my bathroom has been draining poorly for a while. I noticed it a few days ago, but now that I think about it, it’s been progressively slower for weeks. I could have called my dad, but I wanted to fix it myself.

So I called my mom instead, and requested her secret recipe for unclogging drains: pour one cup of bleach into the sink, let it sit for at least 30 minutes, and then pour boiling water down the drain. I did this, even letting the bleach sit for 45 minutes as I practiced the piano. My house smells like a community pool.

Unfortunately, this did not work. If anything, it seemed to be worse. So I removed the stopper and poked down into the drain with an old toothbrush, trying to keep my hand above the water level. Not wanting to look too closely, I stabbed blindly with the toothbrush, deeper into the recesses of the drain. At last, as I met with some resistance. A rusty cloud burst forth, and I pulled a substantial clump of long hair from the drain with my clenched toothbrush. Gross, gross, gross, gross, GROSS!

I threw away the slimy clump, and rinsed the brown residue out of the sink. The water rushed away as the drain drank greedily. Triumph!

That’s right. I fixed it myself. I guess I’m just handy like that.