Home Repairs and Hysteria: Tales from the ADHD Shtetl

Look, I don’t want to say I’ve got ADHD, but let’s just say I went to Home Depot for a screwdriver and came back with three kinds of grout, a succulent, and a near-divorce.

Home repairs? For someone like me? It’s like asking a gefilte fish to tap dance. Sure, it could happen. But should it?

Let me set the scene. A quiet Sunday. Birds chirping. I look under the sink. Drip… drip… drip. I say, “Nu, how hard can it be?” My wife laughs. Not with me—at me. The same laugh she gave when I said I’d do our taxes on my own. Let’s just say the IRS now owns our toaster.

So I get out the wrench. A good wrench! My cousin Herschel gave it to me for my bar mitzvah. Or maybe it was a menorah. Doesn’t matter. I’ve got the wrench, I’m under the sink, and suddenly—what’s this? A missing tile near the stove! Distraction Level: 8 out of 10, with a chance of spiraling!

Now I’m at the hardware store buying grout, caulk, and a thing I thought was a spatula. Turns out it’s for drywall. But I’m committed. Forty-five minutes later, I’m watching YouTube tutorials from a guy named “DIY Dan” who looks like he’s never had a real job OR met a Jew.

Halfway through, I decide the whole kitchen’s the problem. Maybe it’s not the leak. Maybe it’s the layout. Suddenly, I’m measuring countertops with a matzah box and trying to convince my wife that we should knock down a wall. She says, “To where? The neighbor’s living room?”

Now, if you have ADHD, you know what happens next: The Spiral. I start reorganizing the junk drawer. One hour, three flashlights, and a kazoo later—I’m crying over a birthday card from 2007 that says “You’re doing great, sweetie!”

The faucet? Still leaking. My brain? Also leaking.

I end the day in the same place I started: on the floor, under the sink, surrounded by half-used rolls of painter’s tape and my own self-doubt.

But hey, at least the succulents are doing well.

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Conclusion:

People ask me, “What’s it like doing home repairs with ADHD?” I tell them, “It’s like trying to build IKEA furniture with instructions in ancient Aramaic—while a squirrel narrates your childhood trauma.”

So if you’ve got a brain like mine and a house like a sitcom set from 1974, just remember: don’t start with the leaky faucet. Start with forgiveness. And maybe hire a guy named Moishe who knows what a crescent wrench is.

Until next time, keep your tools sharp and your therapist on speed dial.

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