We Need A Man Around the House

When I was young there were plenty of tasks that needed to be done around the big house on the hill. For the most part, I wasn't allowed to do much more than what is called the grunt work. I certainly know my way around the garden, can lift a decent amount of weight, and I had the work ethic to be a real good union laborer back when my back was strong.

Yet it is becoming painfully apparent that my wanting to read and write left me a little shy in the man department. My father was always taking a son along to work on this and that and impart a bit of wisdom. I wasn't interested, and before long, he left me alone.

Fast-forward to today. I planned to tackle a number of household chores. I was going to start by painting the sidewalk that runs alongside our flower bed and forms our concrete stairs.

Now you must know - it is all that I am allowed to paint. The freaking ground. My wife watched me paint once, and shit-canned me from all other paint duties. Yet the sidewalk was still mine.

I got a nice early start, gathered my materials and headed for the sidewalk with I-pod in tow.

It took me a good twenty minutes to open the paint can. And unfortunately, I didn't learn much because we needed two gallons for the job, and the 2nd can was a bugger too.

Yet I got it done. The place looks a lot neater now.

So, I shuffled off to the weed-wacker. I put in a good half-hour with it, making sure that the string didn't break. I hit all the key parts and was nearly done when I ran out of string.

Another example of where the man would come in handy.

I sat at the table and tried my hardest to open the damn thing. I finally got it after about as long as it takes to open a can of paint, and I wound the string, but I'd no sooner get it wound when it would come unwound. Now I have big old fingers and the hole to poke the string through is small. It was like I was trying to thread a needle.

Still it was time for me to do some of this stuff. Nearly 46 years of total incompetence was enough. I flicked the sweat off my forehead and concentrated. How freaking hard could it be? I've written ten damn books and I can't restring the weed-wacker?

The Bruce song was ending on the I-pod, but the next song, a Pink Floyd number started with a guy laughing, and I panicked as I figured it was my neighbor, peering out his window at me, and laughing because the weed-wacker was kicking my ass.

But, I got the last laugh. For the first time, I was able to re-string the damn thing and I finished my work.

One more task. I unwound the hose and took it to the patch of grass I'm trying to grow. By the time I got to the spot, the water coming out of the hose was but a drip. My garden hose had erectile dysfunction.

I headed back to the faucet, lifted the lid on the hose house (Do they call that thing a hose house? I'm thinking its a good name), and saw that it was tangled, pinched and knotted.

Melky and Paris joined me at the hose and watched as I stared down in disbelief.

"Not a freaking shot," I said out loud. "I'll hang myself if I try to unknot that thing. It took me fourteen years to master tying my shoes."

Melky's eyes threatened laughter.

I'd have turned the hose on her if it'd worked.

Instead, I used a nice little water canister to wet the grass and my veggies. I felt awfully feminine with that cute little canister in my hand.

So what.

Untangling the hose would have to wait until Kathy returned.

Why learn this crap now?