This is my first ever wall patch job. Isn’t it splendid! Sanded to absolute perfection. Not a blemish. You can hardly tell there was a big hole there from when Daughter #2 mistook the towel rack for the uneven parallel bars and tore it off the wall.
I think your dad is supposed to teach you these practical skills. But I was such a repugnant failure to that guy, that he couldn’t stand to look me in the eye much less take the time to teach me how to properly patch a wall.
After leaving home I spent the vast majority of my life (up until New Jersey happened to me) living in apartments. If something went awry I called the superintendent from my office and, for the most part, it was fixed when I got home. The good old days.
Me, with WAY too much enthusiasm: “I have fantastic news, [Mrs. Wife]!!!”
Her: “What is it?!! Did they hire you on staff!?”
Me: “Nope. That’s not it.”
Her: “Was the mortgage refinance finally approved?!?!”
Me: “Ummm…no. Not exactly.”
Her: “What happened?!”
Me: “The corporate cafeteria is serving buttermilk fried chicken and collard greens this Thursday! Not yesterday! I didn’t miss it!
Her: “…?” “Are you serious?”
This is the type of nonsense she has put up with for a long, long time. I can’t wait until The Daughters are old enough to get a dose of my irritating, hyper-childlike enthusiasm. Just ask daisyfae what it’s like to walk through Rockefeller Center with me at Christmastime. It’s not sexy. It’s not mature.