Hi, I’m Jerry—a late-middle-aged man on a noble quest to retire without immediately being re-hired by my wife as a full-time home inspector, unsolicited opinion giver, and professional light-switch flipper. To avoid becoming a permanent fixture in her daily routine (and possibly her nerves), I picked up woodworking six months ago.

Why woodworking? Because it’s the only place where my ADHD, perfectionism, and creative chaos can all sit at the same table and not throw sawdust at each other. I’ve always needed something tactile—something that doesn’t beep, buzz, or ask for a software update. Wood doesn’t care if I’m having a weird day. It just waits patiently, like a stoic therapist in plank form, ready to be shaped, sanded, and occasionally sworn at.

Woodworking gives me a place to work through life’s little hurdles. When the world feels too loud or too fast, I retreat to the garage, where the only drama is whether I measured twice or just lied to myself again. It’s a hobby, yes—but it’s also a lifeline. A creative outlet that lets me turn mental clutter into crooked shelves and uneven joints. And somehow, that feels like progress.

I’m wildly critical of my own work. I’ve sanded pieces into oblivion, stained things that didn’t need staining, and once built a shelf that looked suspiciously like a modern art protest against geometry. I rarely show my creations because I’m convinced they’re one splinter away from being evidence in a crime scene.

This blog is either:

1. A therapeutic outlet to help me embrace imperfection

2. A trap set by internet trolls to keep me woodworking until I’m 97 and finally build something square

3. A public record of my descent into sawdust-fueled madness

Either way, welcome aboard. Just don’t lean too hard on anything I’ve made. And if you see me measuring something with my thumb and a vague sense of hope—send help. Or clamps.