I think that I’ve made it pretty clear that I don’t like to fix things. It’s not that I don’t like to nurture or whatever… I just don’t know how to really fix things.
Well, that’s not entirely true. When somebody shows me, I still don’t really do a very good job.
Years ago, my generous Brother-in-Law was kind enough to spend a summer helping me frame and drywall the basement. It was a frikking disaster, at least from my point of view.
Dawna fell off of the ladder attempting to help me hold the sheetrock, and she fell into a tub of drywall screws.
Later, while mudding, I became so enraged (like a berzerker) that I was seriously considering running through the walls, head first, like that was going to help.
Sometimes I have the sense of Mr. Minotaur.
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My wife owns all the tools, saws, wrenches and nips. She parades about in her leather toolman belt and gets greasy to her elbows. She changes the oil in the cars, while I decorate, cook, and draw little pictures for a living. My father was a Mr. Fix it. That gene must have skipped a generation.