Fixing Things

My generation can’t fix a damn thing. I’m not even talking about national debt or homelessness. Nothing as serious as that. We can barely unclog a drain. Don’t even thing about rebuilding a deck or replacing a window. I wish I were joking, but my generation is the one that would rather have handyman on speed dial than order those Sears’ home improvement books to re-grout their own bathroom.

Case in point, when one of my friends bought a condo, she asked me to come over to help install lights and put things up on the wall. Compared to her, I had more experience with the cordless drill and between the two of us, we managed to get everything installed. Even more impressive, everything was level and at the same height. When I told my dad about this, his response was, “Where did you learn to use a drill?” Trial and error on a number of rental units, as it turns out. I can almost always actually hit a nail with a hammer too, that’s how talented I am, and my current rental has the lack of holes and dents in the walls to prove it. (I subscribe to the belief that a wall is replaceable, my thumb is not.)

Many moons ago I was sort of seeing this guy who at the time was trying to impress me. Girls, don’t you wish the trying to impress you period lasted a bit longer? Anyway, while listing qualities that are impressive in the opposite sex, handiness and the ability to fix things came up. His response was, “How do you feel about someone who can afford to hire someone to do it right the first time?” That’ll work too. But I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that along with being good with kids, nothing impresses a girl quite as much as being able to fix things yourself.

While my generation has given way to calling the handyman, my dad’s generation can fix anything. They can also build anything. My dad is truly impressive that way. The one thing he’s not great with is cars. And that’s where my uncle comes in. He too, can fix and build anything. Including cars.

On a recent trip to Seattle, I noticed my car was making a horrible sound. I thought it was coming from a wheel well and sounded like the tire was rubbing against something. So I got down on my knees and looked around under the car. “Yup,” I thought to myself, “four tires and the undercarriage of a car. Just as I suspected.” Since the car still drove fine and didn’t smell I kept on driving since the alternative was spending time in Centrailia wondering what was wrong with my car. Luckily I was headed to my uncle’s house anyway and figured I’d ask him to take a look.

The whole reason for going to Seattle was because I was flying in and out of SeaTac on my way to Italy. My uncle drove my car to drop me off at the airport and confirmed my suspicion that it was the brakes. Of course, not having any idea where the brakes are on my car, I was really just guessing. Amazing fixer and wonderful uncle that he is, not only had he diagnosed the problem by the time I returned from Italy, he had replaced the brake and a U-joint or something. I may have tuned out the actual words once I realized it was fixed and I didn’t have to drive a car with a horrible sound or take it into a shop. I was just thrilled the problem was solved.

This whole story is to illustrate that my generation can’t fix a damn thing. I don’t know a single friend or their significant others who would have been able to diagnose a brake problem and then fix it. And when I’m the one who gets called in to drill holes and install light fixtures, something is seriously wrong.

Boys of my generation, if you want to really impress a girl, being able to fix something will get you huge points. Carhartts and a tool belt won’t hurt either.