Handyman

My mom liked to tease us kids about our hands. She'd grab one with both of her hands and say, "So soft. Never seen a hard day's work."

This is a woman who'd been in the kitchen since she was a child and had a longtime cook's ability to reach into a hot oven without a mitt and grab a pan without so much as batting an eyelid. "Asbestos Hands," my sister dubbed her.

I was reminded of this the other night when I was slaving over my new desk from Ikea. "Gustav" is its name. (And, by the way, having finally made my first trip to an Ikea -- awesome! I realize I'm well behind the times here, but I don't care. Also, I'd like to know how many people Ikea employs to not only figure out how to deconstruct furniture so an idiot like me can put it together, but also how to get all those pieces to fit snugly together in a tiny, tiny box.)

Anyhow, the assembly of my bookcase ("Billy") went smoothly. But Gustav came with many, many screws and required a good deal of, um, screwing. And all those times I've been at Lowe's and thought, "Gee, I really should pick up a cordless drill" but did nothing about it came back to haunt me.

And as I watched a fat blister grow on my middle finger, I thought about how my mom would have scoffed at me. (And how she'd probably have scoffed at furniture made of pressed wood and held together with screws, nails and dowels, as opposed to the hardwood with finely crafted dovetails she always sought out.)

But damn if I didn't still feel some sense of accomplishment, even if it was packaged and sold to me by a bunch of Swedes.