“But I did not shoot the Deputy!”

Over the past two months one of our cats has been pissing in the house.  Though she finally stopped after two difficult-to-administer doses of Prozac, we’ve been on guard.  So, when I noticed a small puddle behind the toilet I approached gingerly.

Hmmm, during the last little while I’ve gotten used to identifying that cat smell at ten paces.  This was odd.  No odor.  Over the last several years of watching the multiple versions of CSI.  I feel I too have become a “spatter” expert.  And this spatter did not seem to constitute a crime.  But where is Grissom when you need him?

I moved in closer.  Still no odor.  With a Jewish sigh, I plodded to the kitchen for paper towels.  With a deeper one, I dropped to my knees and dried the floor.  Still no odor.  Then I noticed the pipe between the toilet and the wall had a turning knob on it.

Now those who don’t know me gotta be thinking who is this idiot?  Those who do might still be shaking their heads in wonderment, but understand that I am perfectly capable of walking past broken cabinets, handleless drawers, closet doors that won’t shut, and metal blinds twisted into grotesque modern sculptures without even seeing any of it.

Hell, the bottom wooden step leading to our house had lost a two slats (that someone kindly placed onto the porch) but it never occurred to me to do anything about them.  Drove my friend Bill so crazy he came over with an electric something (drill?) and screwed the planks in with the correct nails.  (Screws?)  Not really sure.

And there lies the problem.  Even if I actually see that something is broken, the only equipment I know how to use is duct tape.  Actually, it’s not pretty but perfect for many fixes–upholstery, holding things in place, and patching, but wouldn’t really work on steps.  As Sue all too often puts it, I’m a “Jew with tools.”

See, my idea of tools are mechanical pencils and I struggle to reload them.  Never know whether to refill from the top or shove the lead  (assuming I chose the correct mm) up the bottom.  There’ve been times  when I was certain of success only to have the damn lead fall out when I  went to use the fucker.  Much to my dismay, a lotta times.

Which means when given a hammer as a kid I begged for books.  Of course, growing up no one ever needed a hammer.  We rented.  And when I left home I continued to rent.  Right up until Sue suggested buying a house in the late 70s and I fought tooth and nail against it since the idea of fixing anything was as foreign to me as Istanbul.  Praise the lord I lost the argument since the house has allowed us multiple career changes, but it was clear I wasn’t going to be what anyone could call handy.

Now I know “Jews with tools” is a horrible stereotype.  My brother-in-law is a contractor and builder, the Jewish friend who plays piano in my ensemble is the same.  Even my own son is an electrician apprentice.  But that “horrible” stereotype fits me like a high-priced, custom tailored suit.  If I do manage to spot a household problem, here’s my solution.  Yell at the top of my lungs, “SUE!!!  We (you’ve) got a problem here!”

Now let me make it clear–I’m not a total numbnut around the house.  I can fill a dishwasher with the best of ’em.  Until my shoulder problems, I religiously made the bed every morning and regularly did the laundry.  I will again, once I can move my arm into certain positions without risking the operation.  (As the surgeon said, no do-over on this one.)

And I can pick up clutter like nobody’s business, despite the rebuke that “picking up isn’t cleaning.”  It sure as hell is when everyone who lives here drops everything into the first room they land.

I also find everyone’s keys on an almost daily basis.

Which all leads back to the bathroom find and fix.  Down there on the bathroom floor, I didn’t panic.  I held my crouch and stared at that damn pipe.  I didn’t yell for Sue (who wasn’t home anyway, though that never stopped me before).  I assessed the situation and slowly, carefully, tightened up that knob on the pipe.  Then I placed a bowl under my best guess as to where the water was dribbling from.

I call this a breakthrough.  Though still without any tools.  Unless you count the bowl.