It’s no secret that I didn’t marry a handyman. And when I say handyman, not even the kind who aspires and try hard to be one, so we can save some bucks for minor repairs or home improvement in our home.
What gives? Well, for most of you who knows my husband, he works for a Wall Street firm and holds a highly pressurized job. Whenever I complain about things that needs to be taken cared of in the house, to which he always replies to by saying : “get someone from maintenance,” more often than not, (because I must admit that I’m somehow expecting a better answer) I get irked. But deep in the core of my being, I really should not fret because I’ve been aware about this since time immemorial and that for him to be interested in reading up about clamps at reidsupply.com is really far fetched.
We live in a high rise, and we’re fortunate enough that everything is taken cared of by the ever dependable, well-structured maintenance department. I guess, you must be figuring it out now why living in a high rise is much better for us. In the absence of a husband-handyman, I have the whole maintenance department to claim as my handymen.