The Handyman Strikes Again

It’s funny how a small project can morph into an enormous one so subtly that you find yourself neck deep in fertilizer without remembering at what point the cow pen exploded.

I experienced this the other day when I started a modest project to build a small item for my wife’s kitchen. I don’t have reputable woodworking skills but the item was to be utilitarian, not decorative, so I figured I could handle it.

I started off with a small, but tedious, task that had to be done before I could start anything else. Because the task was simple and the outside temperature at that point in the morning was still low, I figured I could begin the project on a sheet spread over my living room floor and then move the operation outside once this first task was done.

Suddenly it was 7 o’clock at night and I was still inside, covered with splinters, tools stored in various nooks of our entertainment center and a semi-completed project lying on the floor, looking like the aborted offspring of a liaison between painter’s scaffolding and a kitchen table.

It was about that time that my wife came home and froze in shock at the sight of sawdust covering her couch...and the TV, and the counters, and the fridge and just about everything else that wasn’t under my protective sheet. After I got her seated, stood her back up to brush the sawdust off the chair and then got her seated again, she asked me how this happened.

My response: I don’t exactly know.

It’s part of the male psyche, really. We just have a tendency to get carried away on projects. I really should have noticed what was happening at some point, but instead I was sanding plywood and cutting two-by-fours on overturned laundry baskets in my own living room. It just happens, I guess.

The projects themselves expand, too. I had redesigned the whole thing three times before noon and gone to Home Depot twice for more wood by 4 o’clock. I can’t resist the urge to make things bigger and better. Crown molding would have been next had my wife not come home first.

But all is well. My wife expressed, through gritted teeth, her appreciation for my hard work and promised that I had done such a fabulous job that she probably wouldn’t need me to make anything else for quite some time.

Mission accomplished.

Keep Your Horror Stories to Yourself

Why do people have a tendency to say stupid things when talking to pregnant women? My wife is currently pregnant, quite pregnant in fact, and due to good health, good genes and the grace of God, she has been blessed with a healthy fetus and a relatively uncomplicated pregnancy.

But whenever she tells another person that, despite the minor pains and nausea, she feels pretty good, the inevitable reply is, “That’ll change.”

What a horribly unhelpful thing to say.

Do they honestly think that she is unaware of what lies ahead? Do they think that they are the first person to notify her of the impending ordeal? Do they expect her to reply, “Wait a second, you mean this won’t feel good the whole time? Please enlighten me to the contrary.”

If your friend told you that she was diagnosed with cancer but was feeling pretty good for the time being, I wager you wouldn’t respond, “That’ll change.” You and she both know there is a rough road ahead, but you don’t feel compelled to tell her.

And yet people have this inexorable desire to make sure that pregnant women know exactly what stages of hell they will be going through and which devils will be along for the ride, just in case their doctor didn’t notify them. When my wife said that all tests so far showed that the fetus was in good health, one woman felt impelled to tell my wife about a friend’s relative’s cousin’s dog groomer’s niece who had been told the same thing by her doctor only to have the baby born with autism, heart arrhythmia and three legs.

Thanks for the warning.

That would make for a great story at any party, to be sure, but why is that your response to the wonderful news that someone is likely to have a healthy baby? Let me return to my analogy: If your friend with cancer told you that the doctors gave her a 95 percent chance of recovery, would you respond with a story about someone who was told the same thing only to die three weeks later?

I think not.

So my plea to everyone, but most importantly to women who have gone through pregnancy, is this: When a pregnant woman is feeling good, compliment her. When a pregnant woman is feeling like someone is tearing out her insides with a pair of pliers, compliment her. Please save your depressing but informative horror stories for those late night episodes of Grey’s Anatomy when you can say, with confidence, “That same thing happened to my uncle’s colleague’s granddaughter’s teacher’s masseuse.”

The Next Big Thing in Firearms

Just the other day I learned of one of the most astoundingly unusual things I had ever heard of. I couldn’t have been more astonished if you had told me Angela Lansbury was a meth dealer, child abuser and bunny killer.

A friend told me that a local store was selling pink rifles.

Yes, you read that right, pink rifles. Move over “jumbo shrimp” there’s a new oxymoron in town and it’s packing some seriously feminine heat.

I would like to meet the man who thought that pink rifles would be a good sales strategy. After all, nothing draws the small arms enthusiasts like a pale shade of rose. And the 2009 models will come in periwinkle and lavender.

I just can’t imagine a world where somebody would want a pink rifle. I’m willing to bet my entire collection of John Wayne movies and boxing gloves that there is not a single man who simultaneously enjoys shooting guns and the color pink. I know a lot of guys who won’t even wear those bright orange safety vests because they look too sissy. They would never be caught in the vicinity of a pink rifle, let alone shoot one.

I also know several women who enjoy target shooting, but the pink rifle still seems to be aiming for the wrong demographic. You never see a woman drive up to the shooting range in a pink Hummer, toss her pink flip phone into a sparkly pink purse and then pull a rifle off the gun rack in her rear window.

In my disbelief I hopped on the internet and, sure enough, there are pink rifles for sale. But their marketing logic just doesn't seem to extend to firearm sales. Making pink rifles is the equivalent of manufacturing Maxi pads in several shades of puce, or gourmet food with a packet of fake vomit “to surprise your friends,” or a Hemingway literature compilation with a free issue of a Dragonball Z comic. It just seems like marketing suicide.

But then again, that’s probably what they said about creating a show for Billy Ray Cyrus’ daughter, and look where that led. Now they just need Miley to do a couple of product placement ads on her show for pink rifles. “Hello kids, and welcome to the Miley Ray Cyrus Show, sponsored by Remington. Tired of all the dull browns at the gun shop? Then spruce up your gun case with a little pink!”

I take it back, pink rifles are going to be a tween sensation.

Save the Vowels

In the midst of all the political, environmental and religious turmoil in the world, we hardly need one more cause to champion. After all, most of the bandwagons are full by now. But I’ve found one that I consider to be extremely important.

It’s called the Save the Vowels movement.

The Save the Vowels campaign fights for the oppressed vowels everywhere. Every time someone ROTFLOL, many poor, defenseless vowels are left out in the rain, forbidden to join their companions in what could conceivably be a rollicking good time. After all, the human is rolling on the floor; shouldn’t the vowels be invited along too?

Most of the vowel offenders are simply lazy; they can’t take the time to write out “be right back,” so they simply belch out a BRB. The vowel-shunning abbreviations have come to replace thoughtful responses, too. A joke that would barely get a chuckle in person gets a LOL in an instant. I just found my other sock, LOL. I just saw a brown cat, LOL. I just breathed, LOL.

Fortunately, there are several corporations, especially in the Internet sector, that are doing what they can to support Save the Vowels. Take Apple Inc. for instance, they have started a foster-word placement program for vowels. They have worked miracles for the i by helping it find a home in iPods, iMacs, iPhones, etc. I have even heard they have plans to buy a dairy and start producing iScream.

So join the fight against lazy abbreviation. Instead of LOLing your way through life, support Save the Vowels and put those vowels where they long to be: laughing out loud along with the rest of us.

Trust the Computer

I have been enjoying the transition from English student to full-time writer...for the most part. I had always assumed that once I started working with grownups that they would, in fact, act like grownups. Not so. People have simply stopped blaming someone for spilling punch on the carpet and moved on to shifting the blame for missing a deadline.

But I’ve also experienced a more significant bump in the road to the adult workforce. I was assigned to the workstation of an ex-employee, and the person who had my computer before me managed to leave behind some pretty malicious software hidden inside. This innocuous bit of code turned my computer into a spambot that was emailing all over the world. If you need that little blue pill to improve your “manhood” for cheap, apparently my computer’s got it.

My computer was doling out millions of emails; the IT guys here said I even got pretty good coverage of Russia. Aside from the prestige of traveling the world through email, there were two serious downsides: my computer was eating up almost the entire bandwidth of the company just with spam, and all the spamming actually got the company blacklisted on most email servers so that legitimate customer service emails weren't being sent or received.

You can imagine the management's displeasure.

You can also imagine my displeasure at having no proof that it was not some side business I was running. As expected, the IT guys are inclined to trust the computer reports more than the people. Instead of "Wow, look at what the computer did," you’re more likely to hear, "What exactly do you think you are doing to this poor, defenseless piece of company property?"

And so it was that in the first two months of my writing career I was desperately trying to keep my job, and my reputation (oh, didn't I mention that somehow all this also caused several porn URLs to appear on my reports as "sites visited"? Apparently, since I singlehandedly sent 3 million emails in a day, I must have also had time to visit Luscious Lizzy and her website of forbidden wonders.

Eventually, the IT guys were able to convince management that it was, in fact, a virus that caused all this. But not before I had used the company insurance policy to pay for 80% of a heart transplant and 50% of a blood pressure medication, with co-pay of course.

The Dangers of Valentine's Day

Valentine’s Day is coming and with it come all the dangers of presuming you know what women want. Any man even remotely involved with a woman will need to present her with a gift that expresses his devotion. Too bad we’re so socially advanced; most other species get away with bringing home a dead animal or fighting with tooth and claw. Somewhere along the way, the human mating ritual expanded to include flowers and a lot of bluffing.

It would be easier to skip the whole affair. Nevertheless, getting nothing is not an option because she’s not going to forget. No, she’s been planning your gift ever since she finished unwrapping her Christmas presents.

But you can’t just get her a card. It’s apparently got to have more meaning behind it than the Hallmark limericks can offer. Flowers always seem to have meaning even though they are going to wither and die in a few days. Presumably, this isn’t supposed to be a symbol of the relationship, so I’m not quite sure what significant meaning a bouquet of roses is supposed to have. Other than the fact that you just blew the monetary equivalent of several dinners and a movie on eleven-and-a-half mediocre roses that aren’t quite as perky as the florist promised. Funny how the florist’s prices skyrocket while quality plummets every year between the 13^th and the 15^th of February. Must be one of those funny stock market things.

Chocolates used to be a sure bet, but lately eating has gone out of style and has been replaced by a lot of crazy diets. Giving chocolates for Valentine’s Day could very well get you a browbeating for tempting her to break a diet that she has been so faithful to for so long...well, ever since New Year’s at any rate.

I’ve seen several different TV shows and movies refer to men giving lingerie for Valentine’s Day. It’s incredible that anyone would accept such a blatant inaccuracy because women are not looking to get a fur-lined g-string for their special day. There are only two types of men who give lingerie for Valentine’s Day: those who have been spending more time on the internet than with real women, and those who aren’t planning on being with this particular woman by next Valentine’s Day anyway. Giving a woman lingerie for Valentine’s Day is like her giving you the complete DVD set of A&Es Pride and Prejudice for your birthday. Somewhere along the way it becomes apparent that you aren’t quite as sincere as you should be.

Don’t fear, though. Some men manage to avoid the pitfalls and do it right. The guy who is lucky enough to think of something unique has it made. Maybe he’s even created something himself from scratch, something that his wife will see every day and be reminded of his everlasting love.

Smug little show-off.

For the other 300 million of us in the continental United States, things aren’t so easy. All I’ve got so far is a bag of red and pink M&Ms and a Hallmark card. I couldn’t even afford one with a complimentary limerick.

Let’s see...Roses are Red, You are Too. No that’s not it....

The Best Form of Government

I have been watching all the political turmoil that is going on in our country lately and I am becoming more and more convinced that democracy just isn’t working. We need to redesign the system so it better serves the needs of our country.

Personally, I think the ants have given us a great model for a self-governing society: the monarchy. The queen ant rules over the entire colony, making sure that it runs efficiently and that every ant has what it needs. Why can’t we mimic that? There will be no poor, no needy, no class distinction, aside from the worker/queen thing of course.

Monarchy has somehow fallen out of fashion but I think our ant friends have shown us that it is the only long-term solution to benefit our colony, er, country. Look at England. They have the Queen Mother and that’s been working out well for them since Francis Bacon and his ship of hams.

The only difference between ants and England is that the British queen hasn’t given birth to everybody in the country. At least not that I’m aware. Oh, and ants don’t like tea. And ants don’t have a Prince of Wales. And their guards don’t wear big fuzzy hats. And ants don’t play cricket; well not the game anyway. They do have cricket friends who come and play cricket music for the colony. But in all other respects Great Britain has made an admirable facsimile of the ant system of government.

I think it’s time that we recognize that ants have figured out this government thing and accept their ideas. Everybody needs a mother figure and I think an American queen would fill the roll nicely for everybody. We don’t even have to have an ant queen; I’m sure a human could do a nice enough job. I vote for Angela Lansbury, she seems like a very nice lady. I’m sure she would make a great Queen of America.

Or maybe we could use the next Miss America pageant to pick the queen. Could anyone fault us for having a queen who got high scores in the swimsuit competition? At least she would properly reflect our wholesome American values and our desired foreign policy for The Iraq.

Think on this idea of American monarchy. The ants know what they are doing and I think it is time to humble ourselves and submit to their superior system of societal rule. Ants don’t need republicans; ants don’t need democrats; ants just need a queen with a big abdomen. Long live the Queen!

Werewolf Avoidance Technique

I have some good news for those suffering from an overabundance of werewolves in their lives. I was recently told by a reliable source that it is very unlikely to find werewolves working as proctologists. Apparently it’s difficult to keep their identity a secret with all those full moons. So if you’re worried about werewolves, try to develop some serious hemorrhoids or find some other reason to hang out at the local proctology clinic.

On second thought, maybe you could go as a totally healthy patient. Those proctologists probably see some really gross things on a daily basis, so they might appreciate a nice clean specimen of healthy hind-end, once in a while. It’s probably pretty rare that somebody limps into their office exclaiming, “Doc, I’ve got a bad case of healthy bum!”

The Home Decor Store Phenomenon

A few days ago I went to a local store that specializes in home décor. It wasn’t my idea, believe me. My wife convinced me that it was in my best interest to go. It’s easy to act enthusiastic about anything when your wife’s happiness is at stake – and your right to sleep in your own bed.

It was an interesting experience to say the least. I have never seen so much raffia, so much fake greenery, so much fluff. And I have never seen so many ceramic roosters in one place. Let me amend that: ever. And I don’t even want to know who is buying the fake rocks. Why would you buy fake rocks when the authentic stuff is literally as cheap as dirt? I know I may never fully understand the principles of proper home decorating, but things like that make me not want to even try.

But while my wife was perusing the piles of cheap stuff sold at designer prices (discount store my eye), I couldn’t help but observe a few interesting things about my fellow customers. Almost everyone who walked through the front door was in pairs, man and woman, presumably husband and wife.

Every couple began to follow a very specific pattern. The woman’s eyes would immediately light up; the man’s would blink in utter astonishment that there were that many types of squirrel statues in the world. Then the woman would set off eagerly into the maze of aisles with the man tagging along reluctantly.

Since the women were often buzzing around from display to display the men were left to push the shopping cart along. Often they were clutching the handle in a white-knuckle grip that suggested they were afraid of getting swept away in a sea of sphagnum moss and fake tulips, becoming lost to the masculine world forever. It was probably mixed with a distinct panic that somebody from work would see them there.

The astonishment and apprehension would eventually subside as they spent more and more time trying to follow their wives through the aisles. Many men took to parking their carts at the end of an aisle and waiting for their wives to deposit things as they went by in a blur of glassware- and wall clock-inspired excitement.

Some men began to congregate at certain points and strike up conversations about football and monster trucks in order to repel the overwhelming waves of estrogen that were swirling among the bamboo shoots and angel figurines. They would only look away long enough to ask why in the world their wives were loading the cart with fake rocks when they came free outside the confines of the store.

“Poor guys,” I said to myself as the sound of fake rocks being dumped into my cart brought me out of observation mode. “Honey, I think I’m just gonna wait over there while you get your stuff.”

“No, I can’t be running back and forth. I need you to follow me. And try to keep up better; you’ve been falling behind. I had to carry that porcelain dolphin down three aisles just to find you.”

“Sorry, the cart got caught on some fake rhododendron leaves that were sticking out of the topiary display. Let’s hurry and get out of here before somebody I know spots us.”

“Then you’ll have to do a better job of keeping up to me. And don’t forget, we still have to go to the fabric store after this.”

“Yes dear.”

An unwanted assignment

A few weeks ago I read a very interesting article that reported the FBI was searching the warehouse of world-renowned magician David Copperfield. You can see the article here.

That sounds like one of the most daunting tasks you could ever have as a policeman. Not only are you trying to confront a master of deception about a crime, but you also have to go traipsing through his personal playground of magical devices. I can just see it going something like this. Some understandably nervous FBI agents approach the warehouse and say:

Officer 1: Hello, Mr. Copperfield. We have here a warrant to search your premises.

Copperfield: Come right in, officers. Take a look around. I assure you that I have nothing up my sleeves...er, metaphorically speaking, of course.

Officer 2: Maybe we should check his sleeves. You know, just to be sure.

Officer 1: Larry, how many times do I have to remind you that I am in charge of this investigation?

Officer 2: Sorry Sarge. It’s just that my uncle was killed by a... well, you know.

Officer 1: Okay. Um, Mr. Copperfield, would you please roll up your sleeves for us. Slowly. It’s, er, standard procedure.

At least that’s what I would be doing. The reasons for searching the warehouse were extremely vague in the article, which only sounds appropriate when searching the property of a man who uses smoke and mirrors himself, metaphorically speaking, of course.

I don’t care what the charges are; what makes them think that a man who can make an entire building disappear couldn’t hide some blood or a little dirty money. And what if he was a criminal overlord? What would keep him from winking you right out of existence along with the evidence? I think if I were the police, I would be having nightmares about going in there.

Copperfield: Step through this doorway, officer.

Officer: Wh-where does it go?

Copperfield: Where does it go? Ummm...why it leads to the dressing room for all my scantily-clad female assistants.

Officer: Oh, well yes, I certainly think we should search there as well. Wait a minute, why did you close the door behind me? It’s dark in here.

Copperfield: Oh, my mistake, officer. It appears that I accidentally led you into my Mysterious Box of Death. I’ll have you out in a jiffy. In the meantime, if you feel any sharp objects, don’t panic. Those are just the dozen or so swords that I’ll be inserting into the box from every angle.

And aside from seeing the inner workings of his magic tricks, I’d be just as worried about finding something to get really concerned about. Like finding the remains of a dozen failed attempts to saw a woman in half. You can’t tell me he does it the right way every time.

No, I think I’ll stay on the outside of his little fun farm, thank you very much. He can continue his criminal activity as long as I don’t find doves in my ear and my bottom half stays firmly attached to my top half.

Nothing like a show of affection...

One of the most awkward things that happens in life is running into an old friend that you haven't seen for a few years. Sounds crazy, I know. Who doesn't want to see an old friend? But it's an opportunity for instant embarrassment. And I'm not even talking about admitting that you're unemployed and living with your mother-in-law, although that would do it too.

The most embarrassing part about meeting an old friend is the greeting. You're both inclined to be enthusiastic but unsure how to approach. Do you just shake hands? Do you go for the half hug, full hug, or maybe one of those firm shakes with a half hug tacked on? And that's not to mention meeting people that do that kiss-on-the-cheek stuff. We're not in France, for heaven's sake.

Naturally, the level of intimacy should be directly related to how friendly you were in the past. Best friends would want to hug. On the other hand, business acquaintances should stick to a handshake. Sounds simple enough, but when I meet an old friend I find myself searching my memory, frantically seeking evidence for or against a hug. I end up not listening to them because I'm too busy psychoanalyzing them in my head. I doubt it's very rewarding for my friends to see me after such a long time only to find that my eyes are glossed over and I have a reluctant smile on my face. It tends to ruin the moment.

Then after deciding if a friend is indeed hug-worthy, there's the whole issue of masculinity. Some guys don't want a hug even if you saved their life, payed off their credit card debt, and pulled their ailing grandmother out of some quicksand. These are the kind of guys that get suspicious the moment your eyes gloss over. They can smell a hug coming. Then there are the guys that want a hug just because you told them they left their headlights on at a concert once. These guys never gloss over; they know they're going for the hug no matter what. I don't mind that; everybody needs a hug once in a while. But these people tend to make hugs into an emasculating sideshow of sentimentality. Nobody wants other people to see them embracing another man for any amount of time. Quick pat on the shoulder blade and let it go, buddy. No waist hugs, and none of this putting your arm around me when we're done.

But the most awkward part, by far, is misreading the signals. I did this with a friend once. He raised his arms and I thought he was going for the hug. I went for it, only to realize too late that he had dropped his hand into an the unmistakable shake position. We both paused, hesitated, looked at each other expectantly, all the while with hands frozen like we were in some drunken mime show. He decided to go for the hug after all just as I tried to smoothly transition into a shake. We went back and forth like two people on the sidewalk. Both go one way, then the other, then the other again, stop, look at each other in awkward apology, wobble back and forth, head fake, spin move with a cartwheel, and still bump into each other. My friend ended up jabbing me in the ribs with his shake hand, and I poked him in the eye while hurriedly bringing my hug hand down to waist height. We wiped the blood away, exchanged hellos and turned away, grateful that we hadn't been spending much time together over the past three years after all.

Nothing like a show of affection to ruin a relationship.

The crime of being skinny

It’s uncommon in today’s society to hear complaints about food from a skinny guy. Everybody is big on fad diets, glycemic indexes, magic powders and miracle supplements for losing weight.

There’s even a new supplement called hoodia, which is supposed to make the pounds “fall off.” First of all, weight falling off doesn’t sound very appealing. Nobody wants pieces of their beer gut sloughing off at inconvenient moments. Plus, the name “hoodia” just sounds shady. No self-respecting supplement would let itself be called something so unmedical-sounding. It should probably be called “hoodwinked.”

But no one ever addresses the needs of us perpetually-skinny folks. We may not struggle with our weight, but we have our own problems. For instance, we have to live with all the people who despise our very core just for being thin without trying. All that animosity can really give a skinny person an anxiety attack–or an eating disorder.

First, let’s identify the kind of person we’re talking about. The skinny-haters, or people offended by our lack of weight, are not necessarily fat. They are just people who are incessantly concerned about keeping their weight down and are a little bitter about all the crazy diets and strange exercises they’ve gone through to do it.

Since the skinny-haters already have a chip on their shoulder, we need to keep them appeased. Let me share a few steps to better eating relations with those who hate our high metabolism.

The first trick is a hard one because most truly-skinny people don’t watch what they eat; they just eat a lot of it. But when eating with a skinny-hater you really do have to watch what you eat. If you eat like a starving grizzly bear the skinny-haters will become so offended that they will immediately start making loud comments about how they wish they could eat like a pig. Nobody wants that; it brings up too many funny mental pictures.

The best policy is to eat miniscule amounts of food. The rule of thumb is generally to eat less than the skinny-hater. Then the conversation will turn to, “No wonder you’re so skinny! You hardly eat anything!” They will feel sorry for you and start worrying about anorexia and the like. They’ll demand that you eat more, and when you do they will feel like they’ve averted a disaster.

Another important tactic is the “conversation changer.” Whenever the conversation turns to calories or nutritional value of the food, warning flags should be going off in your head. Any talk of fat, calories, or carbs will eventually lead back to the way we burn through them like a marathon runner on fire. The only recourse is to change the subject of the conversation to something benign.

Conversation changers need to be carefully chosen. It would be disastrous to avoid talking about carbs, only to bring up the TV show “The Biggest Loser.” If you work in any kind of food-related industry, be careful not to bring work up either. Even seemingly innocuous hobbies like stamp collecting can cause problems because you can gain calories by licking stamps. Yeah, they’re that extreme about it.

And make sure that you provide yourself some opportunities to eat alone because if the skinny-haters don’t kill you, eating like them will.