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Handyman

Shirtless Worker
Shirtless Worker (Photo credit: Lizzie279)

Yah. We all need one sometime.

Not because we can’t do something. We wonderfully dazzling ladies need a handyman because we choose not to sully our delightfully delicate, feminine wardrobe or our manicured nails.

You may also be like me and require a handyman because you’re just a touch lazy. That’s ok my sweet, juicy, peaches. It’s OK to be a lady of leisure after a long day at the office.

I’d much rather come home to a delightfully refreshing spritzer and watch a hunky man install what-cha-ma-call-its while I watch his rippling biceps and continue to tipple.

However, my recent handyman experience has reinforced my strong tendency toward independence.

I was delighted when a tall dark and handsome man pulled up with a load of tools and an adorably short hair cut.  So delighted I had a very brief flash of imagination that instead of writing this to you, I would be tangled in my light, cotton sheets covered in sweaty handyman love, wearing his tool belt, with a socket wrench thrown in for a little pizazz. But I digress….

Alas, when said handyman stepped out of his car, he was so short I had to look down to see his biceps, and I certainly wouldn’t call them, ‘rippling’.  In other words, he was short and puny with adorable eyes.

“It’s ok, it’s the short ones that make love like Cirque du Soleil acrobats”, I told my judgmental self. “He could be the nicest guy in the world.”

Wrong.

Had I not had a previous relationship with a relatively short foreigner who sported an accent and an annoying attitude, I may have made the mistake of being attracted to this man. If he were on stilts and kept his mouth shut.

Mr. Handyman proceeded to try to up-sell me on electronics equipment, and then poked his nose into the photos I keep on the mantle, asking personal questions and making an irritatingly obvious attempt at flirtation.

I could hardly blame him. After all, his nose was precisely at the level of my breasts, and I could just imagine his dirty little mind undressing the girls, burying his face in the grand valley of womanhood and prematurely ejaculating in his low-riding trousers.

That I know Mr. Handyman wears tightie-whities is just wrong, wrong, wrong. I’m not talking trouser cleavage here, I’m talking low riding at his puny little hip.  That’s just dirty. In a bad way.

I couldn’t’ even continue my light, spritzer induced buzz on the off chance the vino snuck up on me and I got tanked and woke up next to this Russian anomaly of masculinity with the golden tooth.

Instead,  I made a cup of tea and made myself scarce in the kitchen.

Yep. That’s right. I had a short man with a gold tooth hitting on me in my own living room.

When he asked me out for a drink, silently in my mind I cursed the colleague who referred me to this lovely gem of Russian wisdom. I made a note to crazy-glue my beloved colleague’s wipers to his windshield and hide a lump of dog poop under the driver’s seat of his car. Soft, fresh, dog poop.

My not-so-hunky-handyman had an opinion about my relationship status (every woman needs a man), my haircut (cute), my face (fresh), and my ‘no dating’ stance ( just a little shy).

Then he walked me through a scenario when he was working with a ‘single-mother’ and texted her later that night because he liked her and asked if he could come over.  Subtle Casanova. So, with the same subtlety I let him know that should I receive a text that woke me up later this evening (or EVER) from him, it would  be at his peril.

Had I decided to get in his pants based on that story, in a week I’d be wearing his severed, dry penis and ball sack as a teeny, tiny pendant.

Handyman indeed. I think not darlings. Definitely not.

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