When the drain’s not the only thing clogged

Photo by Daniel Dan on Unsplash

I’m irritated—which irritates me, because I’ve been quite calm and relaxed about things lately.

A handyman came to our house. The tasks had been clearly discussed with the dispatcher: descale the boiler and toilet, unblock the shower drain.

Of course, there was the sigh when I asked him to wear those disposable shoe covers in the house. I chose not to react. I mean, I registered it, but I didn’t get upset. I showed him around and explained how he could let himself out through the garage once he was done.

Our setup: an individual garage box within a shared parking garage, used by about 15 households. You can access our apartment directly from inside the garage.

He looked at me and asked, "It’s possible I’ll need to get spare parts—how do I get back in?"

My blood began to simmer.

You don’t. 

You're supposed to be prepared. Also: who’s paying for a 44-minute round trip to fetch what you forgot? And if I’m not home, I’d have to leave the office to let you back in? Not amused. At all.

Maybe it was just a precautionary question. But really—shouldn’t a handyman show up ready for three routine maintenance tasks?

Back at work, I tried not to dwell. I hoped—maybe naïvely—that he’d clean up properly. Because most handymen, in my experience, leave with an après moi, le déluge attitude.

Yes, I know. Maybe this is a “tiny log cabin” situation—a minor irritation in the grand scheme of life. I should keep my eye on the bigger picture. A functioning shower with hot water and a clear drain is a beautiful thing. The rest? Background noise.

Still, I jumped every time the phone rang that morning, bracing for a call about spare parts or a locked gate. The call never came.

“Worrying is like paying a debt you don’t owe.” —Mark Twain

And yet, I kept paying. I needed something to look forward to, so I drove to the Thai takeaway for lunch. When I returned, the garage door was wide open. My blood was now at a low boil. What part of “close the gate when you’re done” is so hard?

Also: the shoe covers I’d asked him to wear were lying exactly where he’d taken them off—on the floor. Did he not wear them? Did he wear them but not think it was his job to dispose of them?

He hadn’t submitted a work report. No list of what had been done. No mention of complications. Nothing.

So now we wait—patiently—for the bill to arrive. Eventually.

This isn’t the first time a handyman has gotten under my skin, so I’ve asked myself: Is it me?

Once, the technician scheduled to maintain our dishwasher was booked for 3pm.—perfect timing to get lunch dishes done beforehand. I love it when things run smoothly.

You know what’s coming, right?

He rang the doorbell shortly after 1:30pm.

"You’re early, the dishwasher’s still running," I told him, flustered.

"No problem," he said, and proceeded to open it. Water sloshed out. Steam poured upward. He started pulling out dripping plates and bowls, stacking them on the limescale-sensitive rack. I resisted the urge to object, left the kitchen, and tried not to worry.

Over an hour later, he called for me: Finished. The half-washed dishes were still sitting there. I was just about to ask him to clean up when his phone rang. From what I overheard, the dispatcher was asking why he wasn’t with family so-and-so—they were waiting for him?

Ah. So that’s why he showed up early. He had confused the appointments. Honest mistake. Surely he’d apologize.

He didn’t. He shoved the work report at me, mumbled something about being late, and left. I was too stunned to say anything. So I cleaned up. Again.

Photo by Pavol Tančibok on Unsplash

Another time, I stayed home so I could let the repairman in before heading to work. He arrived late, reeking of cigarettes and like he hadn’t showered in days. My first instinct was to ask him to come back when he’d sorted out the basics—like hygiene and punctuality. But of course I didn’t. We all know how long it takes to get tradesmen. I wanted the job done today, not three weeks from now.

Yet another time, an electrician came to repair a light that wouldn’t turn on. He looked at the wall and laughed: "That’s not a switch. That’s a push-button."

OK. I used the wrong term. But the light still wasn’t working. He’d been called to fix it—not mock me.

Clearly, I don’t know how to “handle” handymen. But maybe that’s not the actual problem.

I don’t need perfection. I’m not asking for a red carpet. I just want basic professionalism:

• Show up on time.
• Wear the shoe covers.
• Close the gate.
• Communicate if something changes.
• Clean up after yourself
• Don’t make me feel like an inconvenience in my own home.

If that’s too much to ask, then maybe the question is:

Why have we allowed this to become the norm? Entitled handymen vs little housewives?

So what now?

I’m done playing the grateful little homeowner. From now on, I’ll start documenting and pushing back, even if it feels futile.

I’ll be clear with the dispatcher up front: I expect shoe covers, communication, and cleanup. If that makes me “difficult,” so be it. I’d rather be known for expecting things done properly than for putting up with anything.

I’ll ask around, not for the “best” technician, but for the least problematic one. There’s a difference, and it matters.

And if, by some miracle, I find a female technician, I’ll recommend her like she’s the last bottle of decent olive oil in a snowstorm. Because she probably is.

I may not be able to fix the system. But I can stop making myself small to fit into it.

How do you handle it when someone walks muddy boots across your boundaries—literally or otherwise?