No one will ever mistake me for a handyman.
About all I can do with my hands are clap and open a stubborn jar of pickles.
So when it comes to home improvement, things can get dicey.
Take yesterday, for example.
The toilet seat in the powder room needed replacing. In any do-it-yourself manual, this is child’s play.
But what should have taken five minutes took me 30. The plastic nut on the plastic bolt was stuck. After applying a considerable amount of elbow grease, I contemplated cutting it off, then melting it off.
I ended up wrestling the seat like some wild animal, twisting the oval until it yanked free from the hinges.
I deserve better.
My mother’s brothers were all roofers and wonderful carpenters, some of whom built their own houses. Somehow, that DNA strand skipped me.
When I walk into Home Depot, the guys in the orange aprons start walking the other way.
RHETT: I need that squiggly thing that attaches to the wire that goes in the lightswitch box.
RHETT: You know. It’s metal and looks like a corkscrew.
CLERK: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
RHETT: Neither do I.