... but I digress: the Home Handyman. Halleluiah.

     My husband's name is praised at Home Dept, and he is honored among men. At least those wearing tool belts.
     When we bought this little fixer-upper many years ago, we were innocents, unaware how many  jobs required power tools, and how expensive they were. And neither of us suspected my husband's lust for acquiring these tools, and how, as the days lengthened into years, how many of these expensive and yet somehow single purposed tools it would take to fill what we had believed to be a spacious garage.  Or how, lust maddened, my husband would select home repair projects based solely on the need for the acquisition of a new and exotic tool.
      Over the weekend, he installed a new micrwave oven, one of those built-in jobs that goes above  the stove.  Do you realize that G.E. no longer places the screw holes in the same positions it did ten years ago when the oven was new?
     Observations from family, er, well, observers: "I don't think you should drill through the side of the oven.  Won't that let those little microwave thingys out?" "Why is there blood on the microwave?" "Oh my God!" "What's burning?" "Is that a fire on the top of the stove?"  "Oh, my God!" "Where are the bandaids?"
     These remarks were interspersed with many trips to Home depot, although I don't think any new power tools were actually purchased.  The job did require a power saw, a power drill with several sizes of bits, none of which we had, copious amounts of duct tape, a tetanus shot and stitches, and a stern lecture by a doctor  my son's age who probably does not have a fixer-upper and whose lust for power tools is satisfied in the operating room.
      Most of this digression is true.  I may have exaggerated the physical injury aspect, but there was blood.