Page 50 of Man Hands
The episode begins with Tom evaluating an old house somewhere in Virginia. He runs his broad hand over an oak banister while admiring the prewar architectural details with the homeowner. “We’re going to save what’s beautiful about this house, while making it into a more functionalfamilyhome.”
“That’s amazing,” the woman on the screen tells him. But her eyes are saying something else. Something like:I want to scale you like one of the old chestnut trees on mypropertyline.
That’s when the truth hits me like a ton of bricks. When I look at Tom, I already see a man who’s out of my league. But now I realize it’s so much worse than that. There’s an entirenationof women for Tom to choose from. All those viewers admiring his power drill in hi-def. In their hearts they already feel like they know him, the same way my mother talks back to the shopping network hosts, as if they canhearher.
Guess what? I can get the wordrelationshipright out of my head. Because I never had achance.
This realization should depress me, except I’m watching some quality TV. And also, I have two pastries left. But I’m not eating them. It’s just comforting to know they’rethere.
The first episode outlines a plan for the house. His working crew comes in and demolishes the old kitchen. The female homeowner looks a little horrified as a giant hole opens up in the side ofherhome.
“Take that, lady.” I giggle. The second pastry disappears from the bakery bag, and I barely even register eating it. I mean, it was right there asecondago.
In the second episode, our homeowner looks less unsettled. No—she’s practically enraptured by the kitchen Tom builds for her. And so am I. This woman gets the marble-topped baking station that I’ve always wanted. She has a forty-two inch Sub-Zero and a Wolfrange.
I officiallyhateher.
In fact, that might be the point ofthisshow.
There’s one other character, though, that I hate a little bit more. Mr. Fixit Quick has his very own decorator. Even her name annoys me—Chandra. She’s thin and beautiful, and she apparently gets paid for choosing all the furniture and color schemes on Tom’s show. She picks a sage green for the cabinets. It looks fabulous, which makes me loathe her. And then she finds the most adorable barstools to line the new counterspace.
Grumpy now, I eat the last pastry, becausefuckit.
It’s hard to put a finger on my instant dislike for the decorator. She’s too skinny, for one. If Chandra ever visited Bouchon Bakery, she definitely did not eat three pastries. She probably wouldn’t even breathe inside the bakery in case calories are airborne. I also don’t like her hair. She’s too blond. I hateblondes.
But my good friend Ash is very blond, and I don’t hold it against her. I loveherhair.
Hmm.
It isn’t until I watch episode three, when the Virginia home is finally done, that I realize why I hate Chandra more than the woman who gets to live with this new kitchen. It happens when Chandra chooses a color for the Virginia woman’s big dining room china cabinet. Big deal, right? Any hack can choose a paint color called “DeepCoral.”
It’s just that Tom’s face lights up like a neon sign when he sees the end result. Tom is impressed with Chandra. He smiles at her like she’s a member of the club. And she totally is, damn it. I’ll bet she’s at Tom’s meeting right now, spouting off color names and looking skinny. She has a great job and can write off her salon visits as a taxdeduction.
I have no job, and my only claim to fame is an accidentalpornclip.
I almost turn off the TV and fall into a deep depression. But just as I’m lifting the remote, Tom fills the screen again. I can’t shut that off. Not when he’s wearing a tool belt and a tight T-shirt. And the camera does a close-up, as if knowing I’m here on the edge of my seat. The cotton clings to his pecs as he slams his palm against a misbehaving piece of lumber.Bad lumber, bad. He’s so yummy. When the board has taken its spanking, he reaches down to pick up a power drill. Bracing himself against the wood, he tenses his impeccable biceps, pulls thetriggerand—
Drills things. Over and over. He presses the big, fat drill bit against the wood and…Drillsit.
“Holy mother of God,” I pant as his poor T-shirt stretches to accommodate this labor. His big Man Hands are busy on the screen. I can see the masculine hairs on the backs of his hands in high-def. And I want those hands on my body. Right now,preferably.
I sink into the weird sofaandmoan.
29ExclamationPoints!!!
Tom
I’mboth horny and grumpy, and that’s a roughcombination.
It doesn’t help that traffic sucks. And I’m not even in a car. I’m hoofing it in Midtown, trying not to bounce tourists out of my way as I head for my agent’s office on Fifty-thirdStreet.
“Tom!” my agent shrieks when I finally reach her office. Like I’m her long-lost puppy. “Hi, honey!” She grabs me and kisses me on bothcheeks.
“Hey, Patricia.” Her cuddliness is the first sign that something is wrong. She’s a New Yorker through and through—she’d rather kill you for your parking spot then kiss you. Also, I’d been bracing myself to schmooze the producer of my show, but he isn’t here yet. “Where’sSamuel?”
Patricia sits heavily in her giant leather chair and makes a tent of herfingers.
Uh-oh.
