We had a little plumbing problem recently. The bathtub backed up in the guest bathroom.
When something breaks in our house, I know exactly what to do: I call V.
I’m clueless and incompetent and all machines torment me. Plus I’m Jewish. And although I hate to promote a stereotype, let’s face it: very few Jews own power tools.
V is NOT Jewish. And when I married him, I assumed one of the major benefits would be that he would be handy around the house. Only he’s not.
Well, actually, that’s not totally true. He excels at changing lightbulbs—he’s really tall.
Although this plumbing snafu turned out to be a little over his head.
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We now have to do a whole new septic, so I feel your pain!
All I can say at this point is … **@#!*^%#**!!! And $$$$$$$!!!!
Hilarious!! Not for you and V. But the picture is so funny!
I’m Jewish. I’ve owned power tools since my father–also Jewish–started buying them for me. I can’t stand having to rely on someone else to do for me what I could do for myself. My father also taught me to change a tire. And got me an AAA card for roadside serve…in case I needed it.
You’re lucky. My dad taught independence—but in other ways. And it could be a girl thing. I have no memory of ever seeing a power tool in our home through my entire childhood– yet miraculously my brother is one of those rare Jewish doctors who knows how to use them.
Hmm. I am not sure I am with you.
My best friend is Jewish (and I am not; that has always been, of course, a significant fact in our relationship: I will always be the shiksa).
Together we built that tent thing she got married under (and, on the day, I carried one of the poles). We used her power tools.
I’m impressed–a Jewish bride who used her own tools to build her own chuppah. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chuppah
A new meaning for the phrase I’ve seen tossed around so much lately: “princess power.”
I too am quite goy– and the ultimate UNhandy man. I never met a fuse I could not fry. Light bulbs were the exception until I tackled the living room in England. There are no British owned car companies remaining because wiring is a complete mystery to Brits. My brother’s old MG would only start by pressing the cigarette lighter.
On my second bulb change in our first British house, I did not realize that the whole light fixture was electrified so I got blown across the room with twice the voltage in the US, thankfully a soft sofa landing.
But the ultimate enemy for the handy handicapped is Ikea. My first thought at my first Ikea was why did Bush set up prisons around the globe when the ultimate punishment is rendition to endless Ikeas?
First there is the Bataan Death March of shuffling along for hours in circles being prodding constantly by stroller wheels. Lost and eventually starving, you live on a diet of Swedish meat balls which inexplicably under the sauce say Titleist 4.
Ikea’s Hernias R Us service starts by getting anything to your car– the boxes, even for a bed stand, are the size of fridge-freezer.
Open the box at home and this simple little bed stand has 4,809 parts. The instructions for such an international brand are wordless. Just this naked dough boy pointing at drawings of screws which all seem identical to me. Mr. Dough Boy seemed to me to be pointing to ‘Side D’ yet I drilled and attached two legs to what turned out to be ‘Side F”, i.e. the top. Which is why we now have a bed stand with two holes on top.
Bob–you are brilliant. LOVE this.