The Trouble with Marrying Mr. Fix-It

The trouble with marrying a man who can fix anything is that when he dies, you are left to fix All. The. Things.

I know what you are going to say.

"No, Lynette, you don't have to fix them yourself. You can hire someone else to do that."

Oh, really? That's not in the budget. In fact, it's never been in the budget, so I don't really know how to budget for it.

Also? The trouble with Mr. Fix-It was that, by trade, he was a professional fixer. Which meant he was fearless in procuring professional grade equipment. For instance, a consumer-grade Nespresso wouldn't have been sufficient for him. He liked his professional grade, Italian-made, espresso machine, complete with a user manual in Italian. Only Italian. (Because non-Italians are not worthy, I guess?)

Which translates to: expensive to repair or replace.

Also? He practically over-engineered anything electronic. Because he had mad skills.

He built us a movie theater on the second floor. Crawled in the attic to run wires. Built a speaker wall to go behind a 10-foot screen. Programmed a universal remote to control all the things. Programmed Alexa to turn the entire theater on or off with a single command.

(Really, who needs all of this in their home?)

When thingabobs broke, he fixed them. No problem.

He had spare parts and tools for everything.

But then he died.

A couple months ago, the sound in the theater quit.

When I called a local audiovisual equipment repair company, they said it would be a 3-month wait for an estimate. And please, that would be $90/ hour for troubleshooting, thank you very much. And also? Judging from what I have described as the problem, I might have to replace some of the professional-grade equipment... which, by the way, would cost upwards of $600.

Screw that.

I Googled. And YouTubed. Yes, these are my new verbs.

I also called a friend for moral support and some advice.

Then I took pictures of the wiring and ran some diagnostics based on what I'd learned from the internet. Because Mr. Fix-It didn't save the user manuals. Eventually, after three heartburn-inducing days, I fixed the problem. Whew.

All without having to replace any parts or paying anyone to fix the problem for me.

I tried not to think about how it would've taken my husband probably an hour or two, tops. (I did mention that he had mad skills, did I not?)

Then today happened. This morning, the Italian-made burr grinder (for coffee beans) that my husband purchased along with his espresso machine stopped working. When I attempted to grind beans, all I heard was a click. No grinding.

One thing I learned from my electronics engineer husband: If it's not working properly, first turn it off.

So I did. And I unplugged it for good measure.

Then I Googled and YouTubed. Because, of course, this manual was missing, too. (Had I found it, I am almost certain that it would have been written in Italian anyway.)

First, I had to find out what model of grinder I have before I could even troubleshoot it. (Because it would have been too convenient to have the model number emblazoned on the unit. Damn minimalist Italians!)

Thank God for Google image searches.

(Update: I later found the model number hidden in an obscure part of the machine. Why? Who knows.)

Then I found out that the likely culprit is a clog between the burrs. Solution: clean it.

Only, in order to clean it, I would have to take the thing apart.

Thank you, YouTube.

And so I set about the task. How hard could it be to clean this thing?

What I didn't expect is that this task requires brute strength. The kind that someone with freakishly strong fingers would have. Which Mike had, but I lack.

I nearly tore up a couple of my fingers trying to take this machine apart.

Still, with some patience, I was able to take it apart, taking photos along the way (so that I could put it back together). Then I cleaned it because boy, it needed a deep cleaning!

Successfully taken apart! Check out that clog.

Then I proceeded to put it back together. And everything was going swimmingly until the second-to-last step: threading this cylinder back into place.

It was stuck.

So I called my friend Randall for advice. Sent him photos.

"Uh-oh," he said, "I think you need to back it out and try again."

"I can't. It's stuck."

"I think you've stripped it. Look at the side there."

Heh. It looked like that before I started. My "before" photos prove it.

Then it dawned on me: Mike had stripped the threading before. But of course, because he had super-strong fingers compared to mine, he was able to overcome it.

Stuck. You can see where the cast iron is stripped.

As I wrapped up my conversation with Randall (who is woefully out of town), I could feel the tears well up.

We hung up.

I plugged the grinder back in and turned it on. Pressed the "grind" button and watched the burrs spin.

Yep, cleaning it fixed the problem. If only I could put the darned thing back together.

I walked out of my kitchen and into my backyard where I started crying.

Frustration raged in my belly and burned in my chest. This again. Really, so many things have gone this way since I've been on my own.

Try as I might, my efforts never seem enough. I often do not lack the courage, the chutzpah, to do the hard thing. But these days, I just as often run against an immutable fact that I have yet to become accustomed to: that courage and smarts are sometimes not enough to solve a problem.

Like when I tried to fix the leaky faucet in my tub last winter. (Because any homeowner should be able to fix a leaky faucet, no?)

I tried. I purchased the replacement part. Followed all the steps until I couldn't. Because I lacked the physical strength to continue.

So I called a plumber who congratulated me for my efforts and charged me full price for a job I started for him.

So, yes, I cried in my backyard. I hate these moments. Moments when I find myself muttering angrily -- no, cussing -- at Mike.

"I f*****g hate this. Damn it, Mike!"

These are moments I feel sorry for myself.

I know what you're thinking. Poor girl with all those nice things.

Yes, nice things that are expensive to replace or fix. Things I didn't even want or need or choose.

Things Mr. Fix-It said we could have because, hey, we can! And if they broke, he'd fix them. They would be his problem. And they were, for our entire life together.

But now? A harsh new reality.

There is a bitter lesson every widowed person is hard-pressed to accept, I think:

That when the marital unit is cut down, you really cannot expect your life to function the same again. In fact, you should really only expect to be half as effective than when you had a partner. Because you've lost your "other half".

This makes mathematical sense, no? This is supposed to be my "new normal"?

How many times am I supposed to experience this until it finally sinks in?

And yet I have refused to believe it. What's more, I'm not sure if I will ever get used to being only half successful at anything.

Which, come to think of it, is not successful at all, is it?

So I exhaled. Walked back into the kitchen. Took all the loose parts and placed them in a bag. Set aside the grinder.

Then I emptied the dishwasher and reloaded it. Took out chicken to defrost for tonight's dinner. Unloaded the dryer and transferred clothes from the washer.

Then I texted my friend Ron.

Because I have decided to define success on my terms.

"Hey, there," I texted, "I need some brute strength. You got any to spare?"

What perseverance/ success looked like, shortly after Ron came to help me.

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NOTE: By the time of this posting, I have found out that the minimum cost for repairing/ cleaning this "beast" (as the "product expert" I spoke to called it) is $400. Plus parts, of course. Phooey.