This was not an easy decision.
I have spent the past few days in seclusion. I have spent the past few days reflecting. I have spent the past few days in my basement, wearing safety goggles and thinking about my country, my family, my future, my mostly unused collection of tools.
But after consulting with many, including concerned employees at Home Depot and Rona, I am stepping down. However, I shall wait until a new handyman is picked. There will be a handyman convention this spring, organized by my wife and some backstabbing friends.
I first used a power drill 12 years ago. I was hanging green roller blinds in my apartment on St. Clair. My goal was to keep the valance happy with the spring mounts, though those might be the wrong part names.
"I believe in unified window treatments," I would declare, giving speeches in the dingy lobby as residents shot me suspicious glances and hurriedly collected letters from their mailboxes.
This was an old Art Deco building. Sometimes, it looked to be leaning left. Other times, the tilt seemed right. These were illusions, caused by curved walls in the centre.
Did I know anything about sinkers and cracked plaster? No. But I planned to hang those blinds for future occupants. It was a plan I believed in and fought hard for, even if guests never accepted my green blinds.
These visitors, unfortunately, believed my wife's smears and propaganda. At dinner parties, she would scream things like: "Don't stand near that window! Those blinds might crash down on your head!"
After the vase incident, we had curtains professionally installed.
Not long ago, I nearly electrocuted myself while attempting to install a dimmer switch. There was a spark, a distinct tingling sensation in my extremities – a moment of frisson – and then darkness as the screwdriver fell from my numb fingertips.
Was it a Robertson or a Phillips? I still have no idea.
You might say I had a rather personal voyage into domestic repairs. Once, while attempting to replace a kitchen faucet, my shoulders got wedged under the cabinet. I didn't try to wriggle free or come up with a Plan B or even cry out for help.
Instead, I silently turned that wrench with conviction. Looking back, I should have first turned off the water.
These are the lessons one learns when a jet stream begins to shoot uncontrollably into one's face, forcing his eyes to close in the deluge.
In the days ahead, I will use all my energy to prepare my household for a new handyman.
I believe my children deserve a smooth and proper transition. They deserve laundry room floors that are not damp, furnace filters that are not clogged.
I've had the privilege of travelling across this great country. I've met many wonderful Canadians. Some of you shared tips, teaching me about drywall tape or pressure-treated fencing.
During these conversations, I could not understand a word you were saying. I smiled and nodded and then, later, nearly decapitated myself with a rented chainsaw.
Being the handyman in my household had its ups and downs. It has been a privilege to change light bulbs and re-grout tiles and fight for the household I always dreamed about as a boy.
Did I fail? Maybe, possibly, yes. But I always tried my best, even when the fire alarm screeched and the smell of smoke frightened those closest to me.
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