Six years ago, when I moved into my first NYC apartment, I recruited my dad to help me get situated. It was an easy sell — I’m his only daughter and was a bundle of nerves, as any recently graduate would be. While I was at work, he got a head start on building the IKEA furniture and setting up my bed so I didn’t have to sleep on an air mattress. It was a no-brainer for him, a homebuilder.

When I got home at the end of the day, he gifted me not one, but two toolkits. A cute purple one filled with every single tool you would ever need — including a saw with three different blades, which, to this day, is still in it’s plastic casing, untouched. The second toolkit was less fancy, but had about twelves or so screwdrivers, you know, just in case. He teased me that the toolkits were filled with “boyfriend testers" — the purple screwdriver was cute, but the one with the interchangeable heads was the real gold ticket. Plus the saw, of course.