When men are useful.

There are some men -- mechanics, construction guys, repairmen, etc.-- who seem to be more comfortable dealing with other men. Or maybe it's me that's not comfortable dealing with them, especially in my own home. First I have to get over that sexual issue -- we're twenty feet in any direction from a sofa or bed -- and then I have to get over thinking they are going to monetarily take advantage of me because I'm a dumb woman and don't know the first thing about leaking roofs and water heaters. They are right.

My ex is a kind of a girly man and more interested in words than houses and cars and barbecues so the man shit fell on me. I oversaw the remodeling of our suburban castle and although I really liked our site manager, Rich, I mostly hated feeling -- what was the feeling? -- bewildered about the cost of molding and what to do with the enormous pile of leftover deck lumber the new guy over ordered. (If you're me, you give it to the site manager and regret it later when you realize it was worth almost $2K.) It's a good thing I liked the guys because they practically lived with us for four months. They were here by 7 a.m. and mostly I was dressed but one time I had a horrible stomach flu and waved to them from my sick bed as they walked through my room. We got close.

Anyway, the roof on the new addition has been leaking for the past six years and I finally worked up a nerve to call the outfit that built it. It sounds crazy but I was embarrassed that my roof was leaking, like it was some menstrual mishap. Steve, who's over six feet tall and has hands like bear paws, stopped by today for a look see. He was nice about it, said he'd be back next week and fix things. What should I learn from this? To put a lid, no a lock and key, on my crazy thoughts. Just in case, the next pre-loved man is going to have a big tool chest.