An Open Letter To Norm Abrams

Dear Norm,

Consider me one of your admirers. I watch "This Old House" religiously. I even watch it when there is something else on that I might like more because, hey, I might get a glimpse of that sexy red flannel shirt of yours.

It all comes down to men that do more than take up space. Men who realize that the sum total of their existence has a direct relationship to what they do in this world. It does not matter how much wizard gold you accumulate nor what level your healer has attained. What matters is what you do in the here and the now.

Let me just offer this speculation: You have trouble sending an email, right? You browse the Internet for the best prices on mahogany and cherry wood rather than inglorious acts that involve three women, two men, a donkey and a gerbil.

Please tell me that I'm right in this assumption.

You see, Norm, I'm writing this letter not simply as a fan of "This Old House" or "The New Yankee Workshop". Let me put it this way...I find men who are capable around power tools to be highly attractive.

Now, now, don't blush. Don't pull that Eastern puritanism thing with me. I'm guessing that you have a closet full of black t-shirts that all are emblazoned with white lettering with a twist on a familiar phrase: Got Wood?

I know how you carpenters roll. I am not the only woman that likens fix up shows on tv to porn. When it comes to naked people doing the nasty with tawdry music in the background, I'm totally wondering what those "actors" parents think of their career choices. But you show me a guy that gets up early in the morning and builds a china hutch by noon? Butter baby! I AM BUTTER!

Which is why I have decided to pen this missive, Mr. Abrams. I have spent a great portion of my day stripping. Stripping just for you. Stripping because of you.

Yes Norm, I want to remove the paint from my bathroom window. I want to see the wood bare. I want to run my hand over the grain and make some sultry comment in which I add an "r" to a word that ends in "a". I want to know that what I'm doing is the right thing. I want to know that you would be there if you could, telling me that there is nothing finer in the universe than "getting through those six layers of paint to that surface below." I need to know that this is good for me Norm...that like my life, peeling back all these layers and sweating and cursing and wearing myself out for the sake of 'a better future with beautiful windows' is possible, nay, probable.

Better yet Norm, perhaps you could join me. The leaves are changing colors and in the evening, there is a nip in the air. I've lived in New England and I know that Duluth is very much like your home turf. You'd love it here.

If only you would come, Norm. I promise I would make it worth your while. I would dress up in a pink tool belt and a hard hat and very little else. I would greet you at the door and gaze at you adoringly. I would tell you that there are beers cooling in the fridge and cookies baking in the oven.

And then I'd tell you to haul your ass up those stairs and pick up where I've left off because I AM SICK OF THIS SHIT!