What’s your chore score?

DIARY of a January handyman.

I go to change the lightbulb and the lamp cord needs fixing. While replacing the lamp cord, I decide to repaint the front door.

As long as I am painting the front door, may as well polish the brass lock set. The lock set has lost its luster, so I decide to replace it with a new one.

While I am changing out the lock set, I hear the small beep from one of the smoke detectors, indicating a low battery. I track the beeping to the basement, which needs a bit of straightening up.

While straightening up the basement, I decide to oil the garden shovels. Once the shovels are oiled up nice, I decide to plant some petunias.

In order to plant some petunias, I need to repair the backyard drip system. To fix the drip system, I need to program the eight-zone, 24-station sprinkler control module. To program the eight-zone, 24-station sprinkler control module, I need a degree in electrical engineering from MIT. In order to get into MIT, I need eight more quarters of high school math.

Late January is a very dangerous time to be a handyman. Football is nearly over. Suddenly there’s all this free time to fill. On average, 20 or so hours per week.

Nevermind that we have a very “lived-in house,” full of interesting imperfections. There’s the gash where a Christmas tree grazed the front door. There’s a swirl in the granite countertops that’s not quite right. Over there is where one of the kids gnawed the woodwork.

What kind of person would try to cover up so much character?

“When we’re done with the sprinklers, maybe we can work on the bathroom,” my wife says.

Oh, yeah, that kind of person. In my experience, wives have “free time radar.” Like sarcasm, free time radar is an internal mechanism they use to keep men on task. Some wives also reportedly use their sexuality. However, this has never been documented.

This day, my wife has her ginormous heart set on repainting the master bath. There is a little peeling over the shower. It’s been eight years since we painted it, she gasps.

But, seriously, does a bathroom really need to look like a Neiman Marcus? In fact, does a bathroom even need paint at all? If you ask me, the whole thing should be porcelain. An all-porcelain bathroom would be eternal. Like Stonehenge.

That’s where I’m drawing the line. I’ve got plenty of other things to do on this Saturday afternoon. No way am I dropping everything to paint a bathroom that doesn’t need painting.

While painting the bathroom, I decide that maybe we should have a bidet. I’ve always wanted a bidet, ever since my friend Paul explained that “bidet” is French for “drinking fountain.” “I think I’ll install a bidet,” I tell the wife.

“Good luck with that, Jean Pierre,” she says.

“Merci, mon ami,” I say. “Votre jolie Jerry Lewis est enorme.” While talking fake French to my wife, I pat her on that place where French men like to pat French wives. While patting her there, I decide to pat her on the shoulder too. This leads to a spontaneous five-minute massage, which freaks out the children. They had no idea we were even married.

“Mom, don’t let him touch you like that,” one of them warns as I dig my thumbs into my wife’s lower back.

“Mom, you barely know him!” points out another.

Every time the kids see us touch, which isn’t often, they get all excited like this. Like many children, they are prone to wild-eyed bursts of opinion.

This is normal behavior for American children. About three years ago, American children decided they preferred Starbucks to food. Their bones are now formed almost entirely from caffeine. It’s not funny, it’s tragic. If it wasn’t for the occasional latte, they wouldn’t even have teeth.

On this day, the children circle the kitchen like forest creatures after a lightning strike, upset that some strange man is touching the mother they adore. The blood rushes to the tips of their little ears. There is dizziness. One of them is about to vomit.

“Stay out of the bathroom!” I yell.

“Why?”

“I’m installing a drinking fountain,” I say.

At the end of the day, my chore score looks like this:

1 lightbulb

1 lamp cord

1 front door and lock set

3 shovels

2 holes in the ground

1 drip system

1 sprinkler control system

1 application to MIT

1 drinking fountain/bidet

1 bathroom wall

1 marriage

By the way, all of them are still works in progress. The marriage may take years.

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Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com. For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.