I’m always wishing I could be one of those handymen you see on TV – you know, the guys who always happen to have their tool boxes with them and exactly the right tool to perform some obscure job.

Alas, I am not that man.

I once figured I would grow up and get a job that paid so much money that I could always pay other people to do those kinds of jobs for me.

Then I got into journalism. Thoughts of obscene wealth went away, and I started collecting tools with each new job I had to figure out how to do.

Now I have two tool boxes with so much stuff in them I can’t get the lids to close.

To tell the truth, I don’t actually have two tool boxes. To be precise, my wife owns the two tool boxes. She is the fix-it person in our family.

But last weekend, I had to perform the fix-it work after she pointed out to me that when she said she wished the windows weren’t painted shut that meant I should get the windows open for her.

So on Sunday afternoon I walked bravely into our bedroom with a hammer in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. (For all you real men out there, I took those tools only because I had loaned out my automatic-eight-cylinder-hydraulic-chrome-fuel injected window unsticker to a friend.)

I studied the window for a moment. I was impressed by the thick white paint that had been slathered all over the window when it was last painted. Some of it even made it onto the window frame.

I looked for a chink in that white armor and, there, in the corner, at the top of the bottom window pane, was the place I was seeking.

I slipped the screwdriver into the little hole along the track and started driving it into the hole. I soon noticed the paint down the side of the window cracking in a somewhat straight line toward the bottom of the window casing.

Emboldened by that success, I tried the same thing on the other side.

After some gentle pounding I decided I was ready to open that rascal up.

I put the hammer and screwdriver down on the dresser and started to lift the window.

Nothing happened.

That sucker wouldn’t budge.

Worried now that I might let my little honey down, I started banging away at the cracks I had made. I pounded harder, fearful I would break the glass in one of the window panes.

Now imagine, if you will, (and I was) the embarrassment a macho man like myself would feel if I had to report failure and a broken window.

Ever mindful of trying to avoid that fate worse than death, I kept hacking away at the window. Paint chips hit me in the eye.

I said a bad word.

But I kept at it.

Finally, on the second try, I met with success. The window rose.

About two inches.

I contemplated telling my wife I had succeeded, then racing for the fridge for a celebratory beer.

But I figured I would be found out and have to finish the job anyway.

And as we all know, it’s not a good idea to work with power tools like a hammer and screwdriver after you’ve consumed alcohol.

So I dutifully raised and lowered the window several times until it finally burst free.

Having tasted success, I attacked the second window with a vengeance. Within just a couple more hours that one was moving too.

Now if I could only get the lids on my, umm, Becky’s tool boxes to close.