The girls' guide to plumbing and fixing: why the latest women's lit will also appeal to men

Washington Monthly, May, 2003 by Stephanie Mencimer

DARE TO REPAIR: A Do-It-Herself Guide to Fixing (Almost) Anything in the Home by Julie Sussman & Stephanie Glakas-Tenet HarperCollins $14.95

LAST FALL, THE WIFE OF CIA DIRECTOR George Tenet made a splash in Washington with the debut of her new book. The book wasn't the usual tell-all about life inside "the Agency," or a gossipy guide to Washington insiders, or even the increasingly common Washington wives' book on the miracles of pets. No, Stephanie Glakas-Tenet and her co-author Julie Sussman, also a CIA spouse, turned to a far more proletarian subject: the art of fixing toilets, unclogging garbage disposals, and vacuuming refrigerator coils. Dare to Repair: A Do-It-Herself Guide to Fixing (Almost) Anything in the Home has since become such a sleeper hit that the pair has been commissioned to write a follow-up, this time a girls' guide to car repair.

Dare to Repair promises to school readers in do-it-yourself projects manageable by even the most carpentry-challenged sorority gift. Instructions are helpfully arrayed around drawings of wheelchair-bound seniors replacing doorknobs and pregnant gals installing foot locks. The illustrations give the book a distinctly PC flavor, but it's hardly the product of raging feminists. The acknowledgments are filled with religious references, suggesting a distinctly Christian can-do spirit that seems in keeping with the Rosie the Riveter cover. Dare to Repair is filled with cheerleading: "This isn't rocket science. And if this is the hardest thing you've ever done in your life, then sister, you haven't lived ... Dare to raise the bar for what you can accomplish. Dare to pick up a wrench and tighten the toilet handle that's about to fall off. Dare to level the washing machine that's been rockin' and rollin' for months. Grab a screwdriver and dare to install a new smoke detector. Dare to Repair!"

The book might have been subtitled, "How to become the repair man you've always dreamed of." Glakas-Tenet and Sussman, for instance, recommend putting masking tape along the edge of the bathtub to protect it from scratches while you chisel out the old rotted seal. Men never do these things. But for the most part, their advice is practical and relies on tools you're likely to have around the house--like a raw potato, which they suggest using to dislodge a broken light bulb from its socket.

In this day of dummies' guides to just about everything--not to mention 40 years after the debut of second-wave feminism--it's a wonder there aren't more books like this already on the shelves. Then again, maybe it isn't. After all, most of the repair projects in the book are the kinds of things that middle-class people generally foist off on immigrants or rural folks who charge an arm and a leg just to show up on the appointed day.

Usually homeowners defend their employment of these contractors by pointing to time constraints. The truth is, though, despite their smarty-pants exteriors, most members of the office park set don't know the first thing about ground wires. That's why they are also unlikely authors of a DIY guide. The women who do write books on home improvement tend to come from the lady-of-leisure category. Martha Stewart occasionally wields power tools, but always for ornamental projects, such as, "How to turn a cedar planter into a fetching blanket chest." It's doubtful that Martha fixes her own toilets; she certainly never instructs the rest of us on how to do so.

All of which makes Glakas-Tenet and Sussman an interesting demographic. As CIA wives, they are part of Washington's elite brainiac sector. But because many of Washington's most powerful government jobs don't actually come with high salaries, the women write in their introduction that they often couldn't afford to pay someone else to get rid of that annoying, if not life-threatening, leak in the sink. And naturally, George Tenet had better things to do. As a result, the two women got their know-how on the job, and the projects in the book are the most practical of repairs--things women, and men, actually might need to do.

Helpless in Home Depot

Recently, I beta-tested the book just to see how well it holds up to real life. I've employed its tips on fixing locks and resealing two bathtubs and discovered the miracles of silicone (and not the kind that makes your boobs bigger). I replaced the fill valve in a leaking toilet--something a plumber would have charged me $150 to do. I'm soon to be fixing a leaking faucet and changing electrical outlets. Inspired by the possibilities, I even went out on a limb and regrouted some shower files without outside instruction. When I mentioned what I was doing to friends and family, they reacted as if I had just hacked into the White House Web site. After I told my father I had resealed the bathtub (an incredibly simple operation) he said, "Wow. You know how to do that?"

These favorable responses, though, didn't quite match my own feelings after taking up the "dare." Instead of feeling empowered by my new mastery of men's work, I felt like a complete moron for having to get this girlie book to discover the secrets of toilet hardware, something any ninth-grader could figure out. I was mortified at not knowing that a little WD-40 will make a lock turn like butter. When I think that I once contemplated getting a new refrigerator because the old brown one no longer matched my new white cabinets, I want to beat my breast in shame. As Dare to Repair will tell you, the fridge can be painted. Duh.