Home: Living: Some Assembly Required
When I moved in with my fiancée to a two-bedroom apartment at 12th and Locust last May, she was aware that she was sharing space with someone who wasn’t going to enhance her living situation. She could’ve just as easily been living with a capuchin monkey, albeit with slightly less hair and less hurling of bodily fluids. Besides that, it’s pretty even.
When I moved in with my fiancée to a two-bedroom apartment at 12th and Locust last May, she was aware that she was sharing space with someone who wasn’t going to enhance her living situation. She could’ve just as easily been living with a capuchin monkey, albeit with slightly less hair and less hurling of bodily fluids. Besides that, it’s pretty even.
I’m not handy. I don’t go to The Home Depot on the weekends. I don’t own overalls or any paint-splattered clothes. I’ve never “whittled” or “soldered” or “spackled.” I do own a toolbox, but most of the contents are scattered tack nails, miscellaneous hammers and wrenches that I picked up one day because I felt doing so was a gender requirement. Most of my tools have not been used or identified. We had one conversation a couple weeks ago that went like this:
Her: Do you have any needle-nose pliers in our toolbox?
Me: Come on! Of course not. I’ve got, like, hammers and nails, and that’s it.
Her (after rifling through the toolbox for 10 seconds): Found them! They’re unopened.
In my defense, I’m genetically predisposed to being clueless about these types of things. My father has never been handy and would probably hire a private contractor to put together a paper-towel holder. This lack of the ostensibly inherent male ability to fix stuff can be covered up in most day-to-day situations. However, once you move in with a woman, you become exposed. Granted, she’s well aware that I’m never going to spend a weekend building a deck or ever own a sawhorse, but I’m positive she didn’t know how high the level of incompetence actually is.
“You can hang a mirror, can’t you?” she said, pointing to the decorative, latticed thing that leaned against a wall for a month.
I did hang it, but not without some collateral damage. There are nine other nail-sized holes beside the two I actually needed. Luckily, the mirror covers most of them, but the wall underneath looks like it was the victim of a drive-by shooting.
Feeling bad and a little embarrassed by the mirror situation, I was still determined to prove my worth. So when we purchased a TV stand that required “minor” assembly, I quickly volunteered. However, after I sat for two hours on the floor next to a pile of wood that in no way resembled a piece of usable furniture, she finally intervened.
“Here, just let me …”
Ten minutes later, the stand was assembled.
I continue to feel terrible about this lack of Vila-ness, but until every piece of furniture becomes inflatable, she’ll probably be doing the bulk of the assembling. But if I could, I’d totally blow up a shoe rack for that girl. She deserves it.
Right now, however, all I can do is wipe stuff. The majority of stuff that gets wiped down is in the bathroom, my bathroom, because that’s the only thing I can consistently contribute to make a happy household. The fact that there are two bathrooms was a big selling point for us in renting this particular apartment. She could fill hers with decorative towels, scented candles and 4,000 bottles/tins/cans of exfoliants, emulsifiers and volumizers. I, on the other hand, am completely satisfied having just a shower curtain with a map of the world on it as the centerpiece in my bathroom. If I had a more bran-based diet, I could be a contestant on Jeopardy. Go ahead. Ask me the capital of Uzbekistan.
Even though the separate bathroom thing was supposed to prevent any of those horrible GETTHISGODDAMNHAIROUTOFTHESINK-type arguments, I still find myself constantly hounded.
Even after a thorough, rubber glove and sponge-type cleaning, it still won’t be enough to make it “guest-worthy.” I’ll go in there later only to find she’s replaced my CVS antibacterial hand soap with Kiss My Face Hand Lightener, and placed on top of the toilet a blue candle that is supposed to smell like “Beach Dreams,” whatever they are.
This is part of the give-and-take of shared domesticity, so I’m told. This is the sacrifice you make to build a life together — better, worse, useless and messy. I’m pretty sure she’s sacrificed a lot more than me. I’ve only lost my male dignity, and there wasn’t much to lose there anyway. I understand I should want to clean out my sink every day, hang a shelf or spend a weekend shopping at HomeGoods. I’m just not there yet. Especially since there are plenty of things on television all the time because I, I, selected the perfect cable package for both of us.
