Case in point: Johnny, Danny and Joey.
If you are a single mom running a household with children, you’re busy. Goes without saying.
And if you were raised, like me, with a father who kept the house shipshape growing up, you may not quite have been listening with rapt attention when he taught you how to change the oil in your car, hang a picture or replace a furnace filter.
Enter Johnny, Danny and Joey.
When my house is settling and I need my doorframe renailed, I call them.
When my basement drain backs up, I call them.
And when my son’s lacrosse stick creates a gaping hole in the wall (oh, don’t get me started people), you guessed it, I call them.
I’m not a woman with a tool belt. I make more holes in the wall hanging a picture than most people do in a lifetime of hanging pictures.
My merry band of men with names that end in “y” know this. They love me anyway. At least, as long as I’m paying them.
They arrive early. They work hard. They clean up. And in between, they teach me a few things about carpentry and plumbing, tactfully refraining from comments about my remedial questions. They call me “Boss” and chat about their kids. They tell me my muffins are delicious.
These guys—and yes, they are “guys”—have day jobs. They drive American cars. They’re old school with their kids. They talk with a bit of a Chicago accent—not quite, dese, dem and dose—but not the Queen’s English either. They’re no-frills decent people who like to work hard, watch a good football game and have a beer at day’s end. The extra money they earn goes toward kids’ college funds, replacing their car or, in a moment of whimsy, a new stereo system for said car.
They show up when they say they’ll show up. They call if they’re not going to do so.
After a few years of procrastination, uncertainty and anything but predictability in my life, they are a breath of fresh air.
Seriously–they can do in an hour what some wives wait months for.
Their effect on me? Let’s just say I have been known to open my linen closet door umpteen times in an hour, just to revel in the fact that I now have drywall where plywood used to be, painted in a uniform color, properly insulated.
Laugh if you must. But I won’t be listening.
I’m already on my way upstairs to sit in my linen closet—again. And enjoy the temperate 68-degree temperature in there.
Then I might open and shut my son’s bedroom door a few times, rejoicing in the fact that it closes properly.
And for my finale, I will try to jiggle my now jiggle-free banister on my way back downstairs.
Because, after all, good things come in sets of three.