There are many things I don’t understand about men. Their penchant for wearing shorts in winter even when it’s freezing cold, why they can’t drive past a Lions Club town map without stopping because “Honey, I want to get a good sense of where I am”, and what makes them think they deserve a round of applause just because they’ve done the dishes?
I’ve really tried to fathom the fetishes and the foibles of these mysterious, confusing and often smelly creatures. Just when I thought I’d plundered the depths of my own bloke’s soul and was as familiar with his ingredients as I am with my favourite tuna mornay, like a stray chin hair he just popped up unexpectedly and surprised me, revealing yet another oddity to add to the list. This one took my breath away. See, he wanted a chainsaw. Needed a chainsaw. Couldn’t live without a chainsaw. Had to have a chainsaw. Was going to go and buy a chainsaw, now.
I’m not against my husband having what he wants provided it can be purchased at a hardware store. Early on in our relationship, I revoked his right to shop for anything food-, clothing- or home-related after I found him unashamedly trying to hang a Michael Bolton poster in the lounge room. His taste in almost every area – except his choice of life partner – was deeply flawed.
Yet, on Sunday mornings, he was free to go to the hardware store with all the other men just like him. Men who’ve had their roles reduced by nervous wives to bucket buying, washer fitting and hook hanging. Simple things that pose no interior decorating risk.
These men were not emasculated, hell no. They order their sausages from the Boy Scout fundraising barbecue with a confident swagger, knowing that in just a few moments’ time they’d be in store and in tune with their inner workman. They’ll be asking questions about sandpaper, shovels, nails and nitrate. They’ll compare ladder sizes and compost bin holds, run their hands over workbenches and stand at the Handyman Bar and nudge, nudge, wink, wink, ask where they’d find their favourite screws? Ah, yes, the handyman can ’cause he mixes it with love and makes the world feel good …
And it was good until he introduced the C word. I didn’t get it. We live on a small block in an inner- city suburb. Why would he need a chainsaw?
“To cut stuff down,” he said. What stuff? The only thing wooden in our house is our window frames, veranda posts and his boss when he comes to visit. He continued, telling me he wanted to
“provide warmth for my family”. This was confusing. We have gas heating and electric blankets and, save the odd thermostat issue when somebody (me) gets confused with gadgetry and sets the temperature at minus 18, we seem to do okay. He explained that his need for a chainsaw was something deep and primal, and that it connected him to the rugged men of yore. The roar of the engine, the power to master – more specifically, chop down – nature and the excited glint in his eye when he saw wood lying on the side of the road was all part of a bigger historic picture that he had no control of. It was ingrained in him. Please, please, please could he have a chainsaw? Please.
Well, when you put it like that, I suppose it’s not that bad. See, just as he’s connected to the men of yore, I’m connected to the women of yore.
The historic picture tells me that while having a chainsaw may be fun initially, he’ll enjoy the smell of petrol and sawdust, and the admiring glances from mates when they first spy his Stihl. But this will soon fade.
Soon he’ll see the chainsaw in its true light. A chainsaw means work and, ladies, correct me if I’m wrong, but most men – historically, of course – would much prefer to do other things. Look for our listing on eBay in about six months’ time. “For sale, one chainsaw, one owner, hardly used …”
ABOUT THE WRITER
Amanda Blair lives in Adelaide with her four children and a husband she quite likes when she sees him. In her spare time, she talks a lot and sometimes does it on the radio and the telly.
A version of this article originally appeared in the June issue of The Australian Women’s Weekly.
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