Both-handedness. It is too a word – a made-up childhood word I used to explain the mysteriousness of my brother being able to write with either hand. A budding practitioner of neogolism was I. Or maybe my partner is right and I really am related to Muggs Mcginnis.
My coffee maker is not both-handed. When it pours with my right hand, every last delicious drop of caffeine nectar goes right into the cup. But when it pours with my left hand, dark rivulets of ambrosia flow like prisoners escaping a full-security penitentiary at midnight. It has issues. Feh.
Okay, I just re-read that. Good grief, what a drama queen! Where’s my right-handed coffee mug? My left-handed saucer? My ambidextrous spoon?
They understand me.