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?