David Sheldahl is a local handyman who has fixed a lot of things around our house. A couple days ago he installed a lot of new ceiling lights. The old ones were complicated enough that I stopped trying after breaking a couple of the junction boxes.
When it comes to handyman chores, I have a strict policy. First I carefully explain to Sena that I live a double life and when I’m not playing a retired psychiatrist, I’m one of the Men in Black and I’m likely to get paged to an intergalactic emergency involving absolute herds of zombified alien, one-eyed giant turkeys who have rocketed here across billions of light years and a wormhole vortex to renew their spaceship licenses at the only planet with DMVs in the universe and that I’m in charge of controlling disagreements over the inevitable dozens of suspended licenses because, let’s face it, just look at all the cases of crashed UFOs, they obviously can’t drive.
That never works because my neuralyzer is always clogged with pizza sauce. Then, my next recourse is to run away, although I usually just call Dave to help with yet another handyman job. If that running away doesn’t work, I often blunder in some fantastically improbable way and have to go to the Emergency Room to get sutures or casted. Just ask my wife.
Dave installed 5 ceiling lights in one day. He has the right tools for the right job. He even used a what resembled a coat hanger wire to hang on to the light fixture so he could keep his hands free to use his tools.
Dave has done several jobs for us. The first thing he did was to replace our crooked mailbox shortly after we moved in to our house. It was very hot that day and I felt bad for him. He did an excellent job. He installed outdoor lights, under the cabinet lights, fixed our patio door—he is mainly a self-taught jack-of-all trades, very professional, and reliable. He also has a pretty good sense of humor.
He doesn’t round up zombified alien turkeys or do roofing.
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