This is my title, regardless of my editor’s wishes, as much as I adore my editor.

As my darling daughter, Madam would say, Ermagerd! (You’ll just have to play around with that one dear reader, I’m frankly too pooped to pucker).

In my new office there are three of us – count them, three - all female. Now count in my new office things which needed quite a remarkable amount of achievement.

One 8-by-4 white board to be erected on the boss’ wall; six conference table chairs that sit looking smug and malevolent in six boxes, which in no way resemble conference table chairs, and a stationery cabinet, which like its chair cousins, sits on the kitchen floor in a suspiciously flat box. Unless I have an awful lot of long thin stationery, I suspected that this, too, comes under the classification of “some” (or indeed, complete) “assembly required.”

So I decided to grab the heifer by the tail, and suggested to my immediate lovely gorgeous blonde young incredibly intelligent boss that I thought it would be quite a sensible idea to introduce some testosterone into the mix, and asked permission to employ my “guy” – you know “the guy” you call in to achieve butch-type things around the office or house. In my book, it’s anything that requires more than an all-purpose screw driver or a hammer, those two implements comprising my entire tool kit.

So this past Sunday – oh there’d better be a considerable amount of brownie points coming my way – Dave and I met up at the office to erect, assemble and generally amaze.

I was the gopher – “Annie, hand me that left-step-over-toehold whatsit, and then hold the right end of the flaflode for me, and don’t drop the gontigole.” My brain is currently full, and is hurting with trying to decipher building-type terms.

So here is Dave, a mere 7 years younger than me – a wiry little bugger who has more strength in his big toe than I do in my entire body. Or so I was to discover.

Some six hours later I arrived home. My ankles feel like I have stepped in multiple gopher holes – which I suppose is fair enough as I was indeed the gopher. My wrists are shrieking if I even think about moving them, as they’d been press-ganged into tightening every one of the 84 screws involved in Chair Erection 101.

My back came home I think about two hours after I did, and immediately demanded an Icy Hot Patch to be put thereupon or threatened immediate and prolonged non-movement for the next week.

My fingers – never having been anywhere near arthritis – or a Touch of Arthur, as we Aussies would say, have adopted a rather alarming claw-like countenance and are calling for amelioration in the form of raisins soaked in gin, aspirin, or wine.

The Chardonnay won. I’m now off to bed.

Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at anniedearkc