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?
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?
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