I am not handy. I am not handy at all.
I am embarrassingly not handy. Horrifyingly not handy. My tool box is an unorganized mess, and quite frankly, I can’t tell what half of the tools in there are.
This item is available in full to subscribers.
To continue reading, you will need to either log in to your subscriber account, or purchase a new subscription.
If you are a current print subscriber, you can set up a free website account and connect your subscription to it by clicking here.
If you are a digital subscriber with an active, online-only subscription then you already have an account here. Just reset your password if you've not yet logged in to your account on this new site.
Otherwise, click here to view your options for subscribing.
Please log in to continue |
I am not handy. I am not handy at all.
I am embarrassingly not handy. Horrifyingly not handy. My tool box is an unorganized mess, and quite frankly, I can’t tell what half of the tools in there are.
Me: “Did you say you have a screw driver named Philip?”
Friend: “No, I said I need a Phillips head screw driver.”
Me: “Why do you want his head?”
I have tried over the years to change, I really have. I installed a toilet with my dad back in about 1993. OK, my dad did most of the installing while I stood around and acted like I knew what was happening. (Who knew toilets had a wax ring?)
When my kids were small, I dreaded them asking for toys that had to be assembled. When my son was about 5, we bought him a basketball hoop when we lived in Nebraska. I put that together in the freezing garage. It took hours when it should have taken about 15 minutes. Once I was finally done, I realized I couldn’t get it out of the garage. I had to take it apart and move it outside to be re-assembled.
That was not my finest hour. And I think I taught the neighborhood a few new words and phrases that night.