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.

Plumbing

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.

Cars

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.

Tools

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.



A Discussion About Shirtless Dudes & Chicks on Bikes

Yesterday marked a sad sad day for this brother. It was the last game of the World Cup. I’m a long-time soccer geek and live for the World Cup.

This past weekend the wife and I watched the Germany third-place game. I thought I’d be all manly and watch the game with her and impress the hell out of her with my soccer knowledge. By the end of the game I thought for sure she’d be ripping my clothes off and confessing that I’m quite possibly the sexiest gap-toothed bastard on the planet.

Instead…..

Wifey: “So when do they take their shirts off again?”

Me: “Seriously, that’s all you care about? That really hurts…that hurts down deep.”

Wifey: “So when do they take their shirts off again?”

Me: “Not all the players do that…some of them kiss their country’s emblem that’s on their shirt, some just run around like they’re trying to get away from the rest of their team that wants to tackle the hell out of them.”

Wifey: “So we have to wait for them to score before they do it? Well this sucks.”

Me: “Would it make you feel better if I took my shirt off.”

Wifey: “Oh God no…. I mean, if you’re warm yes, but don’t do it on account of me. Love you honey.”

Me: “Why is it that I want you to take your shirt off worse than Gary Busey wants a gum-reduction, but you say, ‘oh God no!?’”

Wifey: “Hey, what’s that? Why are they touching it with their hands?”

Me: “Because their wives won’t touch it anymore for them. So now they have to do it all on their own!”

Wifey: “Ooooh…OK…we’re even now jackass. At least I told you I loved you after I made you my bitch.”

Me: “They’re throwing the ball in, it went out of bounds.”

Wifey: “So why aren’t there any women in the Tour de France? It’s 2010. That’s pretty messed-up they won’t let any women in.”

Me: “You honestly think a whole bunch of guys got together and made the unanimous group decision to not allow a super fit women wearing extremely tight clothes with her ass perched high in the air for all to see while riding a bike for a solid month throughout all of France? I don’t think so.”

Wifey: “That’s true. She’d probably become the Yoko of the Tour de France anyway.”

Me: “And when she won a stage she could get off her bike, run towards the crowd and rip her shirt off like soccer players. That would be hot.”

Wifey: “You’re a pig.”

Me: “But…you…just a minute ago you were…oh forget it. I’m going upstairs to watch the game.”

Wifey: “Can you pour me some more wine before you go? Love you honey!!”



Where The Hell Did My Dude-Mojo Go?

This past weekend the wife tossed the kids and all their accoutrements in the car and drove 18 hours to Greensboro, North Carolina to spend the week with our family. I just started a new job in March, so I haven’t earned enough vacation time to where I could take a week off to join in on the trip. So…I was left behind.

I was stoked to be thrown in a spot where I’d have a solid week alone. I’ll admit, when they first drove down the street, I was sad. My daughter had cranked out a cute little picture and my son telling me how much he’d miss me was still ringing in my ears.

I walked back in the house, put on some coffee, walked upstairs, peed, then started to put the seat down when I realized, “what the hell are you doing man?

I immediately threw the seat back up with authority and walked out of the bathroom a new man.

It was time to be a freakin’ dude again. Storming down the stairs with a mission I walked in the kitchen to make a cup of coffee and quickly found myself sidetracked by all the dirty dishes. Immediately I started cleaning. I unloaded and loaded the dishwasher, cleaned the counters, and ten minutes later found myself wiping down all the cabinets with cleaner.

Who the hell had I become? I had an entire house to myself and all I could do was think about dropping toilet seats and having a clean kitchen.

Fortunately the World Cup, USA vs. Ghana game was coming on. But it didn’t get any better. By half time I was drinking white wine and standing on my front doorstep wondering what flowers I should buy for the new front flowerbed I had made.

Instance after instance I found myself doing non-dude stuff.

Finally, I’d had enough. So I went down to the basement, watched porn, then laced up my running shoes and went out for a run. Refreshed and ready to get my man-mojo back, I showered, didn’t shave, and left the deodorant right where it was sitting.

Twenty minutes later I was drinking red wine, eating brie and crackers and watching the news. Now I’d apparently turned 80.

That’s when I decided to just embrace who the hell I’ve become. So what if I plan on spending a couple hours in the garden. So what if I look in the mirror and criticize my body every time I get out of the shower. So what if a tiny tear appeared in my eye at the end of Toy Story 3.

I’m still going to fart, drink beer, watch a few baseball games, run, and check out women at the grocery store. Cause I AM a dude damn it.

I’m a dude with a wife and kids who have apparently spent many dark nights slowly pumping small amounts of estrogen in me while I sleep.