Humorous thoughts on adulthood – thank goodness for chocolate, drinks, friends, and duck tape!

Tag Archives: men

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There are a lot of good ways to find a good man in a crowd, but rarely do his looks tell you the story.  I’ve always thought Red Green’s theory about not having to be handsome as long as you’re handy works for me!  And if you know you’re not a good judge, tag me in.  I can tell you in less than 1 minute.  You may not want to hear it, but I promise to give it to you straight (or at least tell you if he’s not – lol). 🙂

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So, sometimes, it takes a man… (Okay, for that, too, but that wasn’t what I was referring to!)  Am I the only one that has things not work for me, but the minute a man is involved, it works perfectly???

Ladies, have you noticed that your kids can be horrible, screaming, other-people’s-children and the second dad walks in the door they’re angels from on high?  What about when you want to open the pickle jar lid?  You tap it against the countertop.  You get the jar gripper.  You hold it with your knees and twist with both hands and grit your teeth.  Nothing.  Then you hand the jar to a man and it pops in 2 seconds.  Does this sound at all familiar?

Am I the only one that has this happen?

Here’s how my life plays out.  Tell me if you’ve been on either side.

Exhibit A:  Our toilet isn’t flushing properly.  (Yes, I’m aware you probably didn’t want to know that, but if I had to deal with it, so do you.)  As is the logical solution, I plunged it.  I plunged it again and again about 6 times throughout 2 days.  No luck.  I take off the lid to see if anything’s broken, leaking, or generally effed up.  Nothing.  Next plan of attack:  call the hubs’ best friend to fix it.  He shows up.  Magically, with 2 more plunges, it works.

Exhibit B:  I have students that are supposed to go into a program on a cd on the computer.  We click on the cd.  We keep re-trying for 15 minutes.  I tell the kids to wait while I go get my work hubs.  He literally walks up to the computer, doesn’t even touch it, and again, magically it starts.  EVERY EFFING TIME!

Exhibit C:  It is common knowledge among the family that the second my dad leaves the farm, everything will fall apart.  The cows that normally are generous enough to stay in on the honor system practically do a jig down the road the minute my dad’s truck leaves the driveway.  Not to mention that if a cow is going to calve, she’ll wait till he’s gone, it’s 5 below zero, and we were planning on having control of the remote for once.  But the minute he pulls back in the drive, I swear they throw their party hats away till the next time.  That’s just how it works!

Why the Hell is that????  Why is it that sometimes you just have to have a man to get the job done?  All I can figure is that it’s that whole damsel-in-distress-needing-a-knight-in-shining-armor deal.  But then I think it can’t be that because I’ve never been much of a “damsel” and I haven’t seen a lot of armor in the neighborhood either.  (feminists everywhere are probably cringing as we speak)

So guys, what’s your secret????  How do you get things to work when we had absolutely no success at all?  Is it God’s way of making sure we keep you around?  I don’t know.  I’m completely baffled.

However, I’ve realized that sometimes I am one drill bit hole away from being screwed, and I guess if a man can walk in the room and get the wood where I wanted, well then, I’m on board.  (pun fully intended)  Because, if at the end of the day my toilet is flushing, the cd is playing, and no bulls have hung themselves, I will be damn happy about it.  I am woman enough to admit that as long as the result is how I want it, I will simply shake my head in dismay and say “thank you.”

So thank you, gentleman, one and all.


thanks cornpalace.com for red green

Dear American Males (and Females who come into contact with said males),

WTH?  I’ll say it whether anybody else has the guts to, or not!  It’s time to man up, America!  Where have all the beer-drinking, old college t-shirted, Levi’s wearing, sports-talking, regular guys gone?  Did Y2K get all of you while everyone was focused on their computers possibly crashing?  Okay, there’s still a few around, but they should not be the minority!

Why is no one discussing the epidemic we have on our hands?  A crisis has been brewing over the last couple of years and there appears to be no immediate cure.  People, men are wearing scarves!  And I’m not talking 45-degree-below-zero fleece or wool scarves. I mean dainty, girly, tie-in-a-side-knot, fringe-hanging, fem fatale scarves!  An ascot by any other name is still a scarf!  Horror of horrors!

The sad reality is that it doesn’t stop at scarves!  If you see a scarf, you don’t have to look too far down to find skinny jeans and breakdancing loafers ala 1985.   First off, no man should have ankles the size of a Smucker’s lid. Secondly, they’re like human versions of poodles with fluff at their neck and weakling little legs that could snap like a guitar string.  Bolton log rule #324:  No boy calves should be smaller than his girl’s calves.  Third, when the line-up includes Prince and Michael Jackson and they don’t stand out in the group as fem, Houston, we have a problem!  Finally, if it were just skinny jeans and scarves it would be one thing, but it’s actually more atrocious than that!

With summer approaching, we are entering the depths of man capris, or as my husband would refer to them:  non-kahona coolots.  That ain’t right, people!  Nor are the tube socks they wear pulled up to their thighs like Vivian Ward hooker boots.  I worry it won’t be long till we’re back to ancient time knickers, and I cannot fathom white tights and wigs on a man I’m kissing much less standing behind in line at Starbucks.  I guarantee you I’m taking a pic on my cell phone and texting you a note asking if you’d like me to hook you up with George Washington!

And don’t even get me started on the primping!  There are teenage boys with more product than my sum total after 38 years of life!  They’ve had more highlights by age 18 than the reels at ESPN.  To be honest, I’m half scared ESPN will go the way of Cop Rock if this trend keeps up.  There’s hair product.  There’s spray tans and moisturizers.  There’s eyeliner.  No lie… There’s more black paint on some twenty-something guys than on a graffiti bridge in Latin King territory.  Oh, and don’t forget the damn nail polish that matches the make-up.  Seriously?

I am just completely baffled.

Red Green used to always say if the women don’t find you handsome, they should at least find you handy.  Ain’t no chance of that now!  They might break a freaking nail!  Plus, we couldn’t possibly find them handsome.  We’re more likely to find them “pretty!”  Perhaps I am one of the few, but I would much rather have ruggedly stocky builds than Bieber-fied chicken legs.  Quite frankly, it just creeps me out.  I look around and there’s piercings as far as the eye can see.  When a guy’s sporting more bling than the QVC channel, I have to wonder what he’s hiding.  Of course, his package-hugging pants leave nothing to my imagination so I can deduce he’s not muling any socks, but still…

At the end of the day, I am all for wearing pink and supporting a cause.  Metrosexual is completely welcome.  I even get a little touch-up when you’re a soap star on camera, but if Ellen looks butch alongside the guy next to you, then I beg of you to step up and help me save mankind.

Crank up the stereo.  Belch the alphabet and say it with me, “Man up, America!”

I don’t know about you, but I want manly men back.  I want guys that open doors for women, eat beef jerky after they just pissed on the side of the road, and own their token pair of tennis shoes that they wear to every event except weddings and funerals.  I want a man that would rather goose you than sip Grey Goose from a martini glass.   I want a man who checks the oil in his car more often than his appearance in the rearview mirror.  Forget manscaping.  It’s time to go back to landscaping.  I’m looking for more John Waynes and less Spencer Pratts!

Are you tired of wussies, pansies, and girly boys?  Then leave the thin manskin pants on the racks!  Hang the Hermes silk back on the divas, not the drama dawgs!  Pull up those man panties!  Help make manly men prosper again!

This is a full-scale SOS.  Reach out to others.  Spread the word!  I call on you to take our country back to the days of men being men and shaking off sprained ankles and awkwardly hugging their mothers.  Man up, America!

P.S. – I’m doing this writing platform challenge where I am supposed to call you into action and ask you to share my cause.  If you feel so inclined to hit the share button on my blog, I would feel so inclined to love you even more.  Thanks!


4th of July is one of those interesting birds. We blow things up. We eat anything grilled. We sit curbside in our bag chairs made of patriotic fabric to watch fire engines and tractors and clowns that throw candy. Some might question the tie-in to independence, but the way I figure it our founding fathers were probably typical boys just like the ones we are all married to now. And what boy doesn’t like setting things on fire, over-eating, and loud, expensive vehicles? I bet even in the days of Yore, Franklin would say, “Did thou see my ox-kicking ride out there?” And what do you want to bet that Hancock was a big fan of a large sausage in a bun? Perhaps Jefferson even said, “Meet the Cannon Martha 45. Can you believe the smoke she puts out? Worse than when I forget to bring in wood for the wife’s fire place!” See, I guess it’s apropos. It’s that whole “boys will be boys” thing.

The best part about 4th of July is that it has a gender-neutral-likability factor. Who doesn’t like a parade and an excuse to have a day off work and a reason to hang out with friends or family? Sure, the guys are probably a little more excited about playing with fire and making loud noises beyond squealing out of the in-laws’ driveway after 3 hours of family bonding, but women get to watch the pretty colors in the sky as their men show off their pyro tectonics. Now, that may have sounded a little chauvinistic, but I don’t know about you but there’s no need to get too close when my hubs has a lighter!  Yet, it isn’t just about fireworks. Everybody likes to eat! In fact, some women (unlike me) can actually shove their husbands outside with a beer, some tongs, and a large amount of meat which means no mess in the kitchen and no dishes to do. No slaving over a turkey or making mashed potatoes and ain’t nothing wrong with throwing a hot dog on a paper plate and calling it good. And you get to wolf down hamburgers, corn-on-the-cob, that American flag Cool Whip cake, snow cones, cotton candy, bomb pops, and an American-brewed beer. How is that not a victory for everyone???

Being an American on 4th of July weekend rocks! Not only do we get to live in the land of the free and the home of the brave, but we get to celebrate a holiday where tank tops and flip-flops are completely expected and acceptable? To make it even easier, if it’s red, white, blue or some combination of such, you’re golden (ha ha). This holiday may not have presents, but it does involve a lot of lily-white, fat-bellied bearded men. Of course, we all know tan fat looks better than white fat so hopefully, they slap on some sunscreen and rectify the situation! Thank goodness for summer. No one questions your back fat, your lack of Prada, or your fashion statement John McEnroe headband. Slap some Harlem Globetrotter shorts on and people consider you an All-American, not a giant dork with manpris (my theory on men’s shorts the length of female capris). Add an Uncle Sam/Cat in the Hat Hat and you’re off to the races. If by races, you mean frog-leaping contests, little kid tractor pulls, or egg on a spoon Olympics.

Here in the Midwest, we’re all about the knee-high by the 4th of July, the American flag flying in the gusting 45 mph winds, and saluting an American soldier, especially if he’s in full uniform when it’s 100 effing degrees outside. So kick back in your lawn chair with your beer or Bartles and James wine cooler circa 1988 and get ready to say, “Ooo” and “Ahh!” as the tissue-papered watermelon float goes by and the missile attack artillery fires. Those are the best declarations in town. So crank up your Springsteen and be glad you were born in the USA!