I hate my handyman. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. He begins our tumultuous relationship by calling me at 7:03am and acting as if that were a perfectly reasonable time to call. He then blows me off for weeks, which is fine by me. The longer I can keep him out of my house, the better. I am NOT down with strangers digging through my room, especially when I’m not there, and then reporting back to my father on their findings, even if it IS just regarding tiling and flooring and painting.
Today, the bumbling handyman finally gets around to calling me and claims to be coming by my house in “an hour or so.” Uh, I’m at work, rocket scientist. And I need 24 hours to emotionally and aesthetically prepare myself and my home. My room is a mess of bras and fashion magazines, my sheets a crumpled pile of the clothes I debated wearing this morning and then thought better of. I do not simply open my doors at a moment’s notice on the whims of the suburban yokle who’s never heard of advance scheduling. He is being respectful of neither my time nor my space.
We are now at war.
I assure you, Round 3 is going to a whole different ballgame. Bring it on, Johnny Toolbelt...