Using Powertools Without Losing Your Thumbs

Growing up in my house, if something broke and needed fixing, my dad, my mom, my sister and I all stared at each other for a long moment and cursed the gods for our misfortune. Eventually we’d all settle on the only solution that we could think of: let’s get a Phillips screwdriver.

No matter the problem, we’d invest all our hopes in the Phillips head screwdriver, the only tool we all knew by name. If that didn’t work, my dad, my sister and I would shrug our shoulders like “we did all that we could, but the patient was too far gone to save,” then assume that my mom would call the relevant professionals to fix the problem and forget all about the matter until it was magically fixed.

But back to the screwdriver, once the call went out to “Get the Phillips”,  my dad would race to his study to find an old vinyl LP  by "The Mamas & the Papas" from his collection, and my sister would run upstairs to her room to remove a “Wilson Phillips” cassette tape from her Walkman. While they were out of the way, my mom would instruct me to go down to the basement to get the Phillips screwdriver.

I would trudge downstairs to the basement and to the creepy unfinished storage alcove where an ancient dented blue metal toolbox rested in seclusion. According to family legend, my Grandpa Kainz had given his new son-in-law, my dad, the toolbox as a housing warming gift. My dad thanked him for the toolbox without asking him what it was or what it was for, and quickly forgot about it. That toolbox followed us from house to house and eventually from New York to Chicago where it found its final resting place in the basement storage place, covered in cobwebs.

I eventually (sorta) grew up, got married, and bought a house. And one day, my wife turned to me and said, "Wouldn't it be nice if we had a deck in the backyard?"

"Indeed," I said. "That would be nice."

"So why don't you build one?"

I looked deeply into her eyes and was surprised to find that she was deadly serious about this. I thought to myself, "Man, that's going to be hard to do with only a Phillips screwdriver."

Fortunately, my father-in-law not only has every tool known to man and possessed the knowledge to build anything worth building or fix anything worth fixing, he had four daughters and was dying to teach someone how to use them.

With his help, it took the entire summer, but I did build that deck in one one of the greatest manly triumphs of my life. I figured I had a lifetime pass from any future projects.

Then, a few weeks ago, my wife got another glean in her eye, actually a craving buried deep in the genetic code of a good majority of women. I'm talking of course about the craving for "organizational tools". In particular, my wife desired shelves in our basement to house all the baby crap we've accumulated in the last two years.

So I called on my father-in-law for more help.

Off to Menards we went to go wood shopping!

Wood. Seriously, they sell this stuff. You go to the store, pick it out and you go home with it. Really, this happens. Have I blown your mind yet?

All I'm thinking here is, "Don't saw off your thumbs, don't saw off your thumbs." It looks like my father-in-law is trying to keep me from running away.

We're smiling because we decided to take a long beer break. I'm also smiling because I think I look cool in my protective glasses. And I still have all my digits.

And here they are! Job well done.

I sipped my beer and looked over at my wife for approval and she said, "I was thinking, since these are already filled up, we should build some for the other wall."

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!