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Entries in car (2)


All I Can Do Is Cut Grass

It’s true…I’m anything but a man’s man.

Actually let’s clarify that a bit. I’m not metrosexual by any stretch. In fact, I’ve had the same wardrobe for probably two decades now and when I smell Axe body spray it makes me want to throw bricks at the dude’s head.

No, I just mean that I can’t do a single handy-man thing to save my life.

I could sit and talk soccer, biking, running, and beer with the best of them. But anything beyond that…I’m struggling.


A few years ago I rip my shirt off one Saturday morning, beat the hell out of my chest, and claim “today I will change out the garbage disposal.”

I grab a couple wrenches, place myself in precarious positions, and smile occasionally at the wife who’s standing there just shaking her head. Ten minutes later, I’m holding two pipes together as best I can to keep water from flooding our entire house while my wife frantically calls a plumber who says, “you know it’s a Saturday and I’m gonna charge you triple over time to come out there?”

For one damn hour I held those pipes together before paying some dude $150 to turn a shut-off valve that was less than 30 yards from where I laid. We then paid him another $300 to fix what I clearly fucked up.


The worst is when I take my car in to be worked on. Inevitably I’m asked, “what make, model, and year is your car?”

I’m always “…uhh…it’s a….ummm…”

Then I immediately act like I’m getting a phone call on my cell phone and I’m all, “oh..hold on, I’ve got a call” which I fake while I walk outside and fumble through the glove box to find anything that will tell me what in the hell I’m driving.


When my wife moved in with me back in 1997 (holy shit I’m old) she brought with her a phenomenal collection of really “cute” tools. They are all sized to fit perfectly in your tiny purse so that no one could ever know you were wielding a Phillips head or flat nosed. (I had to Google those to know what I was talking about.)

I’ve bought some tools over the years, but the cutesy, very very tiny screw drivers still dominate the tool collection. And yes, there’s been many a time when friends have come to my rescue to help with a job and said, “throw me a Phillips head” and I embarrassingly drop my head in shame as I hand them this tiny, itsy bitsy tool that could only help if your model trains broke down in your basement.

So in short…if you need serious work done on your house, car….or well shit, anything…don’t call me.

But if you want someone to stand idly by drinking beer, making you laugh, and referring to shitting as “going boom boom” – well then I’m your guy!!

Oh, and I can cut the living hell out of some grass.



My Son's Balls Are Making Him Competitive

Everything is a freakin’ competition with the boy these days. EVERYTHING!!

Going to the car. Daughter gets elbowed from behind and face-plants as the boy flies by to be the first to a door that is still locked and holds not a single trophy for him on the other side.

Walking down stairs….it’s like watching a murder scene in slow motion as he plows by me, throws his sister against the banister and jumps the last five steps so he can crash himself to the floor and claim victory as carnage and blood drip down the stairs in his wake.

Taking a shower. Within two minutes of walking out of the bathroom, I’ll hear the water cut-off and “daddy I’m finished!!!” echoes through the house till it finds my vulnerable eardrums a mere three seconds before ultimate relaxation comes over me. I vow to tape record this so when he’s a teenager and spends a half hour masturbating washing in the shower, I can prove that he has the ability to take one quickly.

Drinking his milk. The daughter doesn’t even like milk…so who the fuck is he racing? He’ll choke it down…white shit spewing from his nose, eyes watering like hell, slam the cup on the table and announce, “finished!!” while still breathing hard and sporting one kick-ass milk mustache. And for what?!

Playing Wii. I’m gonna just throw the damn thing away. I’m determined not to let him win all the time so that he learns to be a respectful loser, but damn….it’s like getting kicked in the nuts every two minutes. It’s painful and makes me cry, fall to my knees and want my mommy to hold me.

I’m competitive, but nothing like this. Is it the red hair? Is it his balls? That’s what it’s gotta be…those tiny little marbles of his are probably working overtime growing, expanding…. It’s like Donald Trump moved into my kids sac, started building skyscrapers everywhere, and decided to run for mayor, start his own TV show, take over the circulatory system, and overthrow his brain chemistry all in one foul swoop.

And the daughter totally provokes it. We’ll be on our way out the door to go somewhere and the boy will be off chasing something shiny in a corner. Then the daughter gets that evil grin and says, “Grrraaaayyyssooonnn….. I’m gonna be first to the caaaaarrrrr.”

And his head will poke up from behind the couch, and immediately he springs to his feet, vaults the ottoman, ducks and slides under my waiting arm to stop him, slams his sister against the front step railing, falls on concrete but turns it into a tumble, and slams into the car door, flipping around claiming victory! And behind him is a pissed dad, a mother picking up a bleeding, crying daughter, and a cat slowly slipping out of the house through the wide-open door while everyone’s distracted.

I just hope someday his competitiveness can be brought under control, harnessed, and used to make mommy and daddy rich beyond their wildest dreams. Until then…..I’ll I guess I’ll just write about it.