Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Drill Diary



Things are strangely organized in this apartment right now. As usual, my parents' active support is a factor. I got a double-take the other day when I mentioned I was planning to ask my dad for help with the unused work phone in my purse (I was hoping not to know you, Blackberry). I do realize I’m way too old to rely on parental guidance.



That’s why I bought my own drill a couple months back. It’s cute and cordless, and there was all this stuff I needed to drill. But then, I had a lot of nondrill projects, like installing a filter on the kitchen faucet. It was the third try, after I vowed not to return the shiny chrome filter back to the box again, that I thought of something. Every time I’ve seen plumbing in progress (work with me here, faucet parts were involved), there’s lots of cussing and nothing fucking works until it does. I opted for not cussing but sweated like a bomb was about to go off, while the kids poked their ostrich heads into our kitchen with the square footage of a bathroom mat . . . get out! When the filtered water was flowing - not spraying out the side - I called everyone back for high-fives.



After that glorious moment, it was time to know my drill. But not really. I’ve got so much work to accomplish these days in every sense of the word. So in anticipation of Mother’s Day, I asked my dad to bring his drill to get some stuff up on the wall, like my fallen closet rod. I didn’t want to complicate things by bringing out the new drill I didn't even know. I’ll save that for the next time my dad comes over.



Picture: Something I love that my dad helped me put up on Mother’s Day. Turns out, this one didn’t need a drill.

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