a carpenter's daughter

You wouldn't know it by how inept I am at fixing things around my house, but I am a carpenter's daughter. Or maybe you would know it because I can't use a drill to save my life. All I can think of right now is the irony of doctors' children always being sick and a certain English teacher's children hating writing and English. It's all so ironic!

All of these thoughts have been ruminating as I've been attempting to take care of my home and make arrangements for new flooring. I couldn't even make arrangements for the flooring without major frustration. I caught myself being impatient, so I tried to turn it around and be appreciative for the help I was receiving. I am very certain that the frustration with my ignorance and incompetence was being misconstrued for being upset with the customer service people. I just hope that guy was able to see I wasn't upset with him. I hate it when people take me wrong.

And all of this entire situation has me missing my dad. I was thinking about him on my way home from this flooring ordering fiasco, and I thought about how he worked so hard until he couldn't anymore, but even then he kept on trying. His imperfection was blaring quite often, yet his generosity and desire to make things right with people were truly hallmarks of his character.

Did I already say how I miss my dad? Well, I do. And I wish so very much I could have learned how to be more handy. But maybe it's good because my inability keeps me appreciating his talent.