There are just some things that husbands can’t do
Jason Offutt
I hate it when reality forces itself into my life. The jerk.
Jason’s Typical Day: There’s no traffic on the way to work. Sweet. Hey, no one’s walking the sidewalk either, except that one guy who’s shuffling. Whoa. The zombie apocalypse happened while I was fixing eggs. Cool. What’s within arm’s reach I can use to fight off the undead hoard?
Reality: You’re an adult and the dryer’s broken. When you get home from work, fix it. Oh, and that zombie staggering by the lamppost? It’s an art major and he’s hung over. Moron.
Reality’s right. The dryer is broken and the Internet preacher said the zombie apocalypse wouldn’t happen until this summer. That’s just great. Why didn’t the Fake Undead Uprising and Dryer Crisis of 2017 happen while I was out of town so my wife could take care of it?
There are certain duties expected of husbands, like mowing the lawn, scraping dead opossums off the street and fixing things.
I can do all that. Yep, I can fix everything from a flat tire to my toddler’s broken heart (just give her what she wants). But a clothes dryer? How does a clothes dryer even work? It gets hot and spins around. Is there a little dragon inside, or something?
No problem. I’ve got this.
According to the source of all knowledge and wisdom, Wikipedia, a dryer is about as complicated as a PEZ dispenser. For example, one part is a drum. I smacked it with a hammer and it produced a metal “ting.” A timpani. Now I know what I’m dealing with.
The timpani is controlled by a belt connected to a motor. The dryer started squealing about a week ago and when my car does that it’s usually the belt. Awesome. I’ve fixed the problem already.
I picked up the phone and dialed.
“Hello,” a voice said. “Fixit Auto. How may I help you?”
“Yeah,” I said trying to sound as manly as possible. Mechanics don’t take you seriously unless you sound manly. Like that time my voice squeaked and I paid extra for muffler bearings. “Got a problem with squealing when the motor’s on.”
“Sounds like a belt.”
Darn straight.
“What model is it?” he continued.
“It’s a Whirlpool W-BR549 front-loader,” I told him with extreme confidence because I’d read the sticker on the door.
Silence.
More silence.
“A what?”
“A Whirlpool –.”
“Yeah, I heard you. Do you mean a clothes dryer?”
“Of course.”
He hung up.
No worries. I’m a man, right. Right? I can fix things. It’s in my blood.
Men have tools, lots and lots of tools. We often measure our manhood by the number of tools we own compared to the number of tools our friends don’t. Power tools count double. We don’t even know how to use our tools; we just need to have them.
After dragging one of my toolboxes into the laundry room I got to work. Five minutes later the place looked like the final battle in a zombie movie. Ten minutes after that I walked into the emergency room with a rag pressed tightly to my hand.
Zombies, I thought two stitches later. Isn’t that how this day started?
Find out about everything Jason at jasonoffutt.com
