I found a husband on Facebook.
He’s actually somebody else’s husband, but he’s working out quite nicely. He does floors and windows. Right now he’s in my garage sanding cupboard doors, while I’m inside sanding and painting the cabinets. When he comes in, he tells me I’m doing a fine job even though we both know I’m not.
After my whining on Facebook that my bedroom windows were all falling down, Jeff showed up. We’d never met, but had mutual Facebook car friends. The fact that his wife Linda is a Motherlode fan may have helped a little.
He offered to drop by to take a look at the windows, first explaining that he’d renovated many places and had all his own tools. I may have swooned. A few weeks ago in this column, I mentioned my Internet window tool fiasco.
He knocked on my door and I showed him my Internet tool, which isn’t nearly as hot as it sounds. He thrust up my window — also not as hot as it sounds — and watched as it shuddered in a collapse worthy of any high school, Shakespearean Lear.
“All the windows do that,” I explained.
It was true. My parents had them installed a million years ago, but they’d never worked properly and if I was cruel, I’d name the company that installed them. I’m not and I won’t, but if you buy something that costs a ton of money, make them come back and honour the warranty. Just sayin’.
“I have to source parts for them,” said Jeff.
My ears perked up. I’m fond of someone else doing the research. And the ordering. And the fixing.
“Leave it with me, and I’ll email you what I find out. But I really think it’s an easy fix.”
Like lightning striking or unicorns skidding on their butts down rainbows, a light bulb went off in my head.
“Do you do other things?” I asked Jeff.
Again, not as hot as it sounds.
“I need my kitchen cupboards painted. I need a hole in the dining room fixed. I need three doors hung. I need an outlet replaced. I need six rooms painted. My yard is a mess …”
He held up a hand and smiled.
“Let me find out about these windows,” he said.
“I’ll give you my Visa card,” I replied, lunging for my wallet.
I actually thought there was a very good chance I’d never hear from Jeff again, no matter how much Linda might enjoy reading Motherlode. I’ve pushed my limits with more than one man, and while I like to think it’s the overwhelming amount of work my house needs that seems threatening, I admit it might actually be it’s owner who can be a bit much.
Jeff came back. Jeff fixed a hole in the dining room. Jeff fixed the windows. Jeff built a custom landing rail. Jeff has sorted out a flooring issue. Jeff has custom fit a folding door I bought 20 years ago.
Jeff is transforming the kitchen cabinets and I am helping, though I have a niggling suspicion my help is much like when a toddler helps you do anything; it takes twice as long and you fix it when they’re not looking.
I handed him a mug of tea one day.
“You’re like a husband without the sex,” I laughed. “You ever watch Murphy Brown?”
If you’re of a certain age, you remember the show. Murphy had Eldon, who truly was the perfect man. He fixed things and painted things and gave her advice. Every woman I know wants an Eldon.
When all this is done, I think I owe Linda a dinner.