My handyman, who shall remain nameless because I’m clueless about whether or not he wants any unsolicited publicity – and I were talking while my 5-day estimated paint job was stretching into week THREE!.
He was talking about cowboys. The mental picture in my head of course goes right where every red-blooded American queers would go. Thus, the photo on the left here.
Handyman said he liked cowboys. I said I liked cowboys, but that there weren’t very many here in South Florida and what few you could find looked like they had been rode hard and put up wet. And smelled that way too. I got a puzzled look.
Now mind you, my handyman is a looker. I really don’t care about that – I care about the fact that the reason my 5-day estimated house painting job was in week three for this conversation about cowboys is because
Handyman is a nit-picking professional grade-A jerk about not doing shoddy work. Something about he wasn’t going to let the previous painter’s crappy work affect the quality of his new work.
Not wishing to speak ill of the dearly departed, but the first painter we had 5 years ago apparently did nothing but paint. The worse the damage he found, the thicker the coat of paint to obscure it.
Ok, doesn’t help that Handyman also got sick, or later injured. Heck we all have life coming at us at 500 mph and sometimes we don’t duck, or swerve and just stand there and let it smack us right in the face. I’m retired, the house isn’t going anywhere and I know eventually it will be finished. Mostly.
Handyman also wasn’t having nothing to do with all the “messy” wires. I had 12 security cameras strung up, along with a few solar powered lights and I wasn’t always necessarily as neat as some people think you should be when installing things around the house.
No, it wasn’t this messy – but the way Handyman whined about it …well, anyway I took down 3 ham radio antennas and associated wiring and he was gracious enough to help me take down all twelve cameras and wiring, and the 4 solar motion sensor lights. And he did plug the hole at the bottom of the wall in my utility room that caused the room to flood everything when we had more than 1 inch of rain, but that meant we spent a half a day drilling a new big hole up under the soffit so we could move all the wires …and you see, Bob’s your uncle and before you know it, you’re in week FOUR!
OK. Here’s the thing. Going into week FOUR was all my fault. But, I know now that to keep someone from battering their brains out on concrete you have to cradle their blood spurting head in your hands when they are convulsing, and that it takes the Oakland Park fire and rescue department six million hours to arrive (time kind stops when you
are holding a thrashing/bleeding Handyman in your hands) and that driving down Andrews Avenue to Broward Medical at 4:30 on a Wednesday afternoon is a frustrating exercise in biting your tongue and beating on your steering wheel trying to get the idiots taking their car for a walk down the street to GET OUT OF MY F’KING WAY! I also learned that it takes more than two people to load a 250LB concrete topped table onto a dolly that is doing it’s best to get out of the way. And that when a dolly handle collides with a human skull in just the right way, with just the proper amount of force, said human skull will require THREE staples to close the wound. Administered without lidocaine of course, because that would make it hurt more? I don’t get it, you’d have to ask Handyman, but from listening to three loud YELP!s, each more vocipherous than the last, I’d say it was a toss-up.
So, we are back to the original opening of my story, that conversation about cowboy’s. You thought I’d forgotten about it, but no, even now I take a minute and scroll back up to stare into that Cowboy’s eyes. Aren’t they 
dreamy? And ABS? I’ve never in my life had even a single AB, much less such a nice ripply assemblage as what is on my example of a cowboy above. Handyman? Nah, not so much. He was talking about the Cowboy steak from Wild Fork that he was going to fire up and eat. I actually remember that steak because it had resided in my fridge in my motorhome for an entire weekend, and then been transported back to Handyman’s house and had never thawed out. It was a frickin monster steak, I know it was all of five pounds.
So, while my virtuous, nit-picky and not at all bad to look at Handyman was enticing me with dancing images of sexy cowboy’s both in and out of a pair of nice jeans, HE was thinking about food.
Anyway, if you’re in this neck of South Florida and need the services of the best Handyman ever, maybe I can hand out his number. I’d have to see if he’s wanting more business, but I do warn you. Don’t try to feed him unless your resources are deep.
I also learned one should not go shopping on the Wild Fork site when hungry.
