CP: I see on a recent listserv that you are your mom's new favorite handyman. Knock me over with a feather.

RN: No one is more surprised than yours truly. Even better: I'm using the toolbox that I made in ninth-grade metal shop, my only memento of my three-year stretch at the juvie correctional facility known as Joseph P. Nicollet Junior High School. If memory serves, I got a B-plus.

CP: Adorable. If someone had asked me, I would have said, "Rick? He knows more about a plié than a pliers."

RN: Oh, believe me, I'm faking my way through most of these little home-improvement projects. Mostly, I'm painting. I leave the real stuff to my jack-of-all-trades brother. He can pretty much fix anything. It's sickening.

CP: And here I thought you only watched HGTV because of the carpenters, contractors and landscapers, many of them wearing sleeveless tops.

RN: Well. ...

CP: When I bought my new-construction house in the 1990s, I went into high gear, DIY-wise. Wire ceiling lights, put up fence, do light plumbing.

RN: That was so butch of you. What happened?

CP: Now? I call a guy. Or leave a problem well enough alone. It's really not that hard to step around the rotting portions of boards on my deck.

RN: And do you view this phone-a-professional behavior as a character flaw?

CP: You kidding? For me, it's as close as I ever get to dating.

RN: For your sake, I hope that the plumbers in your Rolodex look a lot different from the tradesmen who show up at our house.

CP: I would never consider going out with someone who couldn't retile a bathroom. You can't grout? Get out.

RN: My entirely predictable lack of mechanical aptitude can be traced directly to my father, who has never demonstrated a comfort level with tools. Our finished basements always had a kind of improvisational quality that suggested "art installation" more than "suburban rumpus room." I love that about him.

CP: My dad was more into gardening than home repairs. But he did spend countless hours building and refinishing furniture. I don't think there's a true fix-it gene in my whole family tree.

RN: I'm fairly certain my brother picked up his Home Depot skill set from our grandfather. When people say "Phillips" to me, I think vodka, not screwdriver.

CP: When someone says "screwdriver," I think vodka. My plan? As major repairs become needed chez moi, I'll just move into a new condo.

RN: Exactly. Everyone should have a resident manager on speed-dial, 24/7.

E-mail: witheringglance@startribune.com.

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