Mr. Heather the Handyman
I recently received an email from someone who not only heaped praise upon my person, but also that of Mr. Heather, It read as follows:
You are an incredible photographer, you’re intelligent, funny, and your cool husband likes trains!
Mystified as to why anyone would call my husband “cool” (I can think of at least 25 reasons off the top of my head why he is not), I wrote back.
Thank you, but my husband is *NOT* cool. He is a colossal dork who works on the computer for hours on end with no clothes on.
The above reply may sound mean-spirited to some but I assure you that was not my intent. I was simply being honest. It hurts me as much to see the aforementioned activity as it hurt you, dear readers, to read about it. Probably more.
The previous having been said, Mr. Heather does have his moments. They are usually had at the most inopportune times regarding subject matter considered odd to most —but he does have them. In fact, he had one this weekend. At 3:00 a.m. Sunday morning after six hours of watching Zero Mostel movies and drinking sangria, to be precise.
Truth be told I should have gone to bed much earlier. But after being on my feet for over eight hours (and interfacing with the public in all its idiotic glory) knocking back wine and singing along to “Spring Time for Hitler” was therapeutic. It was fun, to be perfectly honest. Besides, had I not stayed up so late I would have missed Mr. Heather’s latest “special moment”.
My husband has a Rain Man type quality to him. He is the king of non-sequitors. Or at least I tell myself this when he asks me questions like the following while I am rummaging around the kitchen in the wee hours of the morning:
So how do you like your new toy?
Me: Um, it’s okay. It vibrates too much so I do not turn it on.
Mr. Heather: I could put a resistor in it. That might fix your problem.
Me (mouth hanging open): ???
My puzzled expression netted me a five minute lecture about electricity. It was all stuff I had learned in high school. Or I think I did, anyway. Twenty years later at three in the morning is not the time to quiz me on such matters.
I have given his offer much thought and I think I am going to let the mister pimp out my vibrator. The entertainment value alone is worth it. If he is successful, I may very well pimp out my husband’s services to others who are experiencing similar problems. It would not only be a public service, but it might also prove to be a nice source of supplemental income.
Living with a colossal dork is hardly sexy, but sometimes it’s damned convenient.