My dad is a neat-nick with a passion for organization. His work bench looks like a surgical suite, his office is pristine, and the man can pull a lint roller out of a holster faster than you can say, "Put 'em up!"

He likes his corners tidy and his spaces neat. He has rules for extension cords, a system for his glove box and regulations concerning candy wrappers.

And he likes his schedule. Coffee at 7, shower at 8, walk the dog, wax the porch and following a good polish on the car, he should be two miles into his daily walk by 10.

One might be inclined to think that a daughter showing up on the doorstep with projects in mind would be a blessing to a father such as mine. One might even go so far as to say how lucky one was to have a child such as me. But instead of saying, "Oh boy!" or "Good deal!," my father responds with raw fear to the news that I'll be arriving, as he begs, "Please tell me she's not bringing her tools."

The thought of me showing up in a tool belt is enough to send him running for his DustBuster. Quite frankly, I don't think that Dad has ever fully recovered from the chairs that I attempted to assemble, the crooked shutters that I hung in the dining room, or the large spike that I pounded into the wall to hang a mirror.

Even when I don't have carpentry in mind, Dad is always afraid that my mere presence will mess things up. He's never gotten past the fact that I spilled coffee on his keyboard, was involved in the untidiness of his Rolodex and once had the audacity to move his recliner 3 inches to the right.

My mother's project for me last week was reorganizing the bedroom. At first glance, the task appeared simple and the

day uneventful, but you show me someone who thinks it can be pulled off without a hitch and I'll show you someone who hasn't had the pleasure of meeting Dad. Things went along just splendidly until I sucked up a bobby pin and broke the belt on the vacuum cleaner. My mother and I were then in desperate need of a screwdriver. Since I'd been forbidden to bring tools, we were left with only one option.

"Go into your father's office and grab a Phillips," said my mother. And she said it as if this were a little thing. But those who know my father know that going into his office without prior consent is the equivalent of breaking one of the Ten Commandments. So I simply looked at her and asked, "Are you insane?"

"He'll never know you were there," she responded, as if it were no big deal when she knew darn good and well that it was a big deal.

"The man alphabetizes his pencils, for Pete's sake," I replied. "His chair sits at precisely 24 inches from his desk, his calculator is exactly 4.8 inches from the corner, and you think that I could extract a screwdriver from an environment like that and return it unnoticed?"

She's a tough one, my mother, and although her heart is full of love and her motives pure, she looked at me and said, "Do it or I'll drink the last Diet Coke."

Although I've no concrete proof, I suspect that Mom was manipulative as a child.

I slowly walked the hall and although trepidation gripped my heart, I knew what I had to do. Mom had said that she suspected that Dad kept the screwdrivers under "T" for tools. Of course, they could have been under "S" for screwdrivers or "P" for Phillips or "A" for apparatus.

Of course, she'd never dared to enter, so how the heck would she know?

Although I expected bells to sound and whistles to blow, the room remained eerily silent despite my intrusion. I tiptoed across the floor with the stealth of a cat as I wished I'd had the forethought to wear black tights and a ninja mask.

I opened his toolbox and due to his organized system of common sense filing, I was able to locate several styles of Phillips screwdrivers clearly labeled and extracted them with ease.

And if I hadn't tripped over a wire, knocked a manicure set to the floor, and accidentally unplugged his digital alarm clock, he'd have been none the wiser.

Mom says the restraining order against me should expire just in time for me to come over and weed the flowerbeds.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch. com.