The Honey-Do List: Confession #001

I hired a woman to help me finish my bedroom.

In retrospect, I probably should have worded that differently.

There are certain things a thirty-nine-year-old man should know how to do.

Change a tire.

Grill a steak.

Know when the check-engine light means eventually and when it means pull the fuck over.

And, apparently, hang drywall.

I did not know how to hang drywall.

I learned this at 8:07 on a Saturday morning when a Ford Bronco pulled into my driveway and a woman named Honey stepped out carrying a coffee and enough power tools to make me question several things about myself.

I’d found her online three days earlier.

Not like that.

I had Googled somebody to help finish the bedroom I’d been renovating for the better part of six months.

Calling it a renovation was generous.

Technically, I’d removed half the drywall, pulled up the carpet and purchased approximately $1,800 worth of tools I didn’t know how to use.

My ex-wife used to call this “starting projects.”

I preferred “creating opportunities.”

Honey walked toward the house wearing work boots, fitted black pants, a T-shirt and a backwards baseball cap. Her brown hair fell underneath it in loose waves.

She stopped at the bottom of the porch steps and looked at me.

“You Mike?”

“Depends. Are you from the building department?”

She smiled.

“That bad?”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.”

She took a sip of coffee.

“Perfect.”

I don’t know whether it was the smile, the backwards hat or the fact that she had more tools in the back of her Bronco than I had in my entire garage.

Whatever it was, I suddenly became very aware that I hadn’t cleaned my bathroom.

Or made my bed.

Not that there was any reason she’d be seeing either of those things.

Jesus Christ.

She’d been here twelve seconds.

Get it together, Mike.

THE BEDROOM

Honey stood in the doorway for approximately six seconds without speaking.

This concerned me.

“So?”

She slowly looked around.

One wall was drywall.

One wall was studs.

One wall was technically both.

Electrical wire hung from the ceiling where I’d decided I might someday install recessed lighting.

There were twelve sheets of drywall leaning against the far wall.

I’d been very optimistic at Home Depot.

Honey finally looked at me.

“What happened here?”

“I remodeled.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You committed a crime.”

I laughed.

She didn’t.

Then she did.

“Okay,” she said, setting her coffee down. “Show me what you’ve done.”

I pointed proudly toward the wall.

“I did that.”

She walked over.

Ran her hand across one of the seams.

Then another.

She looked back at me.

“Did you watch a YouTube video?”

“Several.”

“Did you finish any of them?”

That one hurt.

She pulled a tape measure from her pocket.

This was the first thing I noticed about Honey.

Well.

The first work-related thing I noticed about Honey.

She moved around the room like she belonged there.

No hesitation.

Measure.

Mark.

Check.

Move.

Meanwhile, I followed her around my own house like an intern.

She stopped suddenly.

“Why are there three different kinds of screws in this wall?”

“They came in different boxes.”

“That’s generally how boxes work.”

She pulled one out.

“This one’s too short.”

“I’ve never had any complaints.”

Honey slowly looked up at me.

Shit.

There it was.

A tiny smile appeared.

“Twenty-three minutes.”

“What?”

“You lasted twenty-three minutes before making a dick joke.”

“Technically, you said it was too short.”

“And technically, you’re the one who bought it.”

I had absolutely nothing.

She dropped the screw into my palm.

“Come on, big guy. Show me what else you’ve screwed up.”

I stared at her.

She stared back.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did.”

“My face has no respect for the workplace.”

She laughed.

Okay.

I really liked her.

This was becoming a problem.

THE LIST

We’d been working about an hour when she found it.

A yellow legal pad underneath a pile of trim.

She picked it up.

“What’s this?”

My stomach dropped.

“Nothing.”

Whenever a man says nothing that quickly, it is absolutely something.

Honey knew this.

She unfolded it.

At the top, written in my ex-wife’s handwriting, were the words:

MIKE — HOUSE STUFF

Underneath were approximately twenty items.

Fix bedroom wall.

Replace closet doors.

Paint hallway.

Fix dripping faucet.

Install shelves.

Finish deck railing.

The list went on.

Honey looked at it.

Then at me.

“Your honey-do list?”

“Technically my ex-wife’s honey-do list.”

She paused.

“Oh.”

That was the first time all morning she didn’t have a joke.

I took the paper from her and tossed it onto the workbench.

“She moved out before I got around to most of it.”

Honey leaned against the wall.

“How long ago?”

“Eleven months.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine.

But men have been saying it’s fine about things that are very clearly not fine since the invention of language.

I picked up the drill.

“Anyway. What’s next?”

Honey looked at the list again.

Then she took it off the bench.

“What are you doing?”

She grabbed a marker.

At the very top, she crossed out:

MIKE — HOUSE STUFF

Underneath she wrote:

SHIT WE’RE FINISHING

She handed it back.

“There.”

I looked at her.

“We?”

“You hired me, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“So let’s finish the damn list.”

For a second, neither of us said anything.

And for some reason, that hit me harder than it should have.

Then Honey pointed at the wall.

“Now find me a stud.”

I looked at her.

She closed her eyes.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“You walked directly into that one.”

“I need a stud finder, Mike.”

“Still feels like I’m overqualified.”

“You’re divorced and standing in a half-finished bedroom.”

“Fair.”

THE DRILL INCIDENT

Twenty minutes later, the emotional moment had passed.

Mostly because I almost drilled through a water pipe.

Honey grabbed my wrist.

“Stop.”

Her hand stayed there for half a second longer than necessary.

Or maybe it didn’t.

Maybe I just noticed it for half a second longer than necessary.

Either way, I noticed.

“What?” I asked.

“Do you know what’s behind that wall?”

“Another room?”

She stared at me.

I smiled.

She slowly removed the drill from my hand.

“I think I’m going to hold onto this.”

“You’re taking my drill?”

“I’m protecting your house.”

“It’s my drill.”

“Not anymore.”

She clipped it onto her belt.

I looked at the drill.

Then at her.

Then back at the drill.

She noticed.

“Eyes up here, Bob Vila.”

“I was looking at my drill.”

“Sure.”

“I paid $179 for that thing.”

“And yet somehow it works better when I’m holding it.”

I opened my mouth.

She pointed at me.

“Careful.”

I closed it.

She smiled.

“Look at that. He’s trainable.”

This woman was going to kill me.

She climbed onto the small step ladder.

“Hand me the level.”

I grabbed one.

“The other one.”

I grabbed another.

“The little one.”

“There are too many levels.”

“There are literally three.”

“Exactly.”

She laughed.

And that’s when I realized something unfortunate.

I liked making her laugh.

That was dangerous.

Because I had promised myself after the divorce that I wasn’t doing this again.

Dating.

Relationships.

Wondering why somebody hadn’t texted back.

Meeting somebody’s friends and trying to remember which one was Jessica and which one was Jennifer.

Pretending to enjoy brunch.

Absolutely not.

I was going to finish my house.

Buy a boat.

Maybe get a dog.

Simple.

Then Honey showed up in my bedroom and confiscated my drill.

Life has a sense of humor.

LUNCH

Around noon, we sat outside eating sandwiches.

Honey had turkey.

I had Italian.

She stole one of my chips without asking.

“That’s theft.”

“You owe me for saving your plumbing.”

“Take another.”

She did.

I looked over at her.

“So how’d you get into this?”

“Into what?”

“Fixing houses.”

She shrugged.

“I like making broken things useful again.”

There was something about the way she said it.

The jokes disappeared for a second.

I looked toward my house.

“Then you picked the right place.”

She looked at me.

Not the house.

Me.

“I was talking about houses, Mike.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“Sure.”

She stole another chip.

I let her.

And for about five seconds, neither of us looked away.

Then she stood.

“Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“I need you in the bedroom.”

I nearly inhaled a piece of salami.

Honey looked over her shoulder.

“Seriously?”

“You can’t keep saying things like that.”

“I’m talking about drywall.”

“I know what you’re talking about. My brain is the problem.”

“At least we’ve finally identified what’s wrong with the house.”

4:42 P.M.

By late afternoon, something incredible had happened.

The bedroom looked like a bedroom.

Actual walls.

Straight walls.

Walls that probably wouldn’t collapse while I slept.

Honey stood in the doorway admiring our work.

“Not terrible.”

“Not terrible? This looks amazing.”

“Your standards were pretty low when I got here.”

“Still counts.”

She started packing her tools.

I picked up the yellow list.

We had finished three things.

Fix bedroom wall.

Replace closet doors.

Install shelves.

I crossed each one out.

There were seventeen left.

Honey looked over my shoulder.

“Hallway paint is next.”

“Next?”

“Next Saturday.”

I turned around.

“You’re coming back?”

She put on her sunglasses.

“You’ve still got seventeen opportunities.”

“Thought they were crimes.”

“Some of them are definitely crimes.”

She started toward the door.

Then stopped.

“Oh, Mike?”

“Yeah?”

She tossed something toward me.

I caught it.

My drill.

“Practice.”

“You’re trusting me with this?”

“No.”

She opened the door.

“I’m trusting that your homeowners insurance is paid.”

Then she walked toward the Bronco.

I stood there holding the drill, watching her go.

She opened the driver’s door and looked back.

“Eight o’clock next Saturday.”

“Thought you came at 8:07.”

“I wanted to see if you’d notice.”

“You were late?”

“Seven minutes.”

“That’s going on the invoice.”

She laughed.

“Goodnight, Mike.”

The door shut.

The Bronco backed out of my driveway and disappeared down the street.

I looked around my newly finished bedroom.

Then down at the yellow legal pad.

Seventeen things left.

For the first time in eleven months, that list didn’t bother me.

I picked up the marker and added one more item at the bottom.

18. Don’t screw this up.

I stared at it.

Then crossed out this and wrote:

Honey.

I immediately regretted it.

Not because it wasn’t true.

Because if she ever found that list, I was never getting my drill back.

END OF CONFESSION #001