MAN OF THE HOUSE

Ladies, let’s be honest: every household has that man. The one who knows the difference between a hammer and a pipe wrench. The one who knows which end of the nail to hammer. The one who can fix things without having the fire department show up.

I am not that man.

When my wife screams my name in that special tone—the one that means something in the house is leaking, sparking, smoking, or making a noise like a squirrel singing rock n’ roll—I immediately schedule a nonexistent handball game with my buddy.

“Can it wait until tomorrow?” I ask, already halfway out the door.

Even if it can’t, I beg my wife to shut off the water, unplug the washer, or perform whatever sacred ritual keeps the angry appliance quiet for one more day. I’m not proud, but I’m also not electrocuted.

But then… There comes the perfect day.

My wife is gone all day. The kids are at school—hopefully, unless they’ve played hooky. Don’t glare at me! It’s likely my wife’s side—her genes.

I arrive early at work and move around just enough that my boss thinks I’m being productive. In reality, I’m on a covert mission: find an appliance repair person who can sprint to my house, fix the whatchamacallit, and escape before my wife returns and discovers that her “handy husband” is actually a man not capable of replacing a broken shoelace.

Last Friday, the plan worked beautifully. The repairman was in and out so fast he left a breeze behind him.

I beat my wife home, change into working clothes, grab tools and rags for authenticity, and greet her at the door as if I’ve just rebuilt Beaver Dam.

“Well, it is done,” I say with the pride only a true handyman shows when he has done absolutely none of the work.

“Excellent!” she beams. “I knew you could do it if you tried.”

After dinner she says, “Elaine called while I was cooking. I told her what a wonderful job you did on the washer.”

My stomach drops so hard it hits the basement.

“She wants you to come over tomorrow—just before we head to the lake—and fix her appliance. Same problem as ours. Should be a piece of cake for a wonderful handyman like my loving husband, and it will be quicker since you just fixed ours.”

I choke on my iced tea.

“But I was planning on driving us there myself.” Caught and trapped and snared in my own web of lies and fake tool‑holding.

“Hank will drive both families in their nine‑passenger van,” she says sweetly, “since you’ll be busy with their washer. You can join us when you finish.”

I panic. I sweat. I briefly consider faking a shoulder injury, but I’ve already used that excuse twice this year.

What to do? What to do?

Appliance repair persons have an oath about working weekends—NO CAN DO. It’s sacred. Ancient. Probably carved into a stone tablet behind a Lowe’s.

And now I must decide: Do I confess? Do I flee the country?

No, I am in too far. I have to continue this charade.

I swear to myself to always be true from now on.