I’m losing my manhood over a busted toilet

My manhood. That’s what’s at risk here. All because of a busted toilet.

I’ve been a man my entire life, since I stopped being a boy, at any rate. (Yes, I am aware there are those who contend I never did stop being a boy, but I don’t listen to my ex-wives and neither should you.)

Being a man comes with certain responsibilities. Among these are a) taking out the trash, b) opening car doors for your true love, and c) fixing stuff around the house. I am a trash-takng-out machine! But my talent with regard to home repair projects has traditionally been somewhat suspect.

I’m thinking here about stuff like the storm windows that fell out and the porch light that nearly electrocuted my most recent ex-wife (which, all things considered, might not have been an entirely bad thing). The horror stories surrounding my home improvement efforts are myriad and terrifying.

But I’m a man with tools and I am constrained by the dictates of my sex to use them.

Incompetent as I am, I have always been at least slightly more competent than the person to whom I was married at any given moment. My wives have all been cut from a similar, traditional cloth when it comes to gender roles. 

I’m not talking the “Me Tarzan You Jane!” 1950s white male reality here. My past relationships have all been enlightened and liberally spiced with feminist ideology; I like strong women, after all. Yet in each case, when it comes to fixin’ stuff, I’m da man.

Until now. I’m with Lori now. And while I may still look like da man, I’m no longer sure that’s the case.

Why? Because of the busted toilet, that’s why.

A few days ago the little flusher thingy (sorry for the technical jargon) broke. Inside the tank, there is a plastic tube thingy attached to a metal arm and copper ball thingy which, when properly adjusted, allow the toilet to flush. 

All that stuff broke.

I was going to fix it. Really. This despite the fact my plumbing projects often wind up resembling that Three Stooges episode in which Larry, Moe and Curly imprison themselves in yards of leaky copper pipe.

But Lori beat me to it.

She has tools of her own, see, and not the cute little “homemaker” tools in a pink case. They’re the real deal. I’m talking Milwaukee, Snap-On, Bosch. The good stuff. She also has the skills to go with them. In less time than it would have taken me to strip some bolts and bust some pipe, Lori fixed the toilet.

She also can handle electrical work, though she’s promised she’ll give me first crack at any wiring projects that come up. I get the feeling it’s a pity thing.

I suppose I could demonstrate my prowess in the kitchen, but Lori’s also a better cook than me. A lot better. 

It’s depressing. And worrisome. I need something I’m better at and I need it now. My manhood is on the line here.

Maybe I’ll take up ballet. 

I wonder if Lori can dance.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

It’s never easy leaving the place we love most

I keep trying to tell myself I don’t mind losing my house. Like a lot of Americans in these troubled times, I will soon join the unfortunates who – for whatever reason – are leaving behind the one earthly possession they most treasure.

In my case, the loss of my beloved domicile is the logical extension of The Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor’s departure earlier this year. When she left, she took with her the second income that made continued ownership of our little country estate possible.

In short, I just can’t afford it on my own.

My mother would have heart palpitations if she knew I was discussing (gasp) financial matters in a public forum. But folks, I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one in this predicament.

Whether due to spousal departure, job loss, health issues, or just this rotten economy in general, thousands of people across the country lose their homes every week.

Not that I’m actually “losing” mine, at least not yet. But I am putting it up for sale. The odds of it selling before I’m forced to strike some sort of unhappy bargain with the bank are not good, however.

The bank, I should point out, has been great to work with on this, and no, that comment’s not intended as irony or cynicism. They don’t want to see me lose my home any more than I want to lose it. But they are in the business of making home loans, not “home gifts.”

Anyway, I’m calling the Realtor tomorrow and listing the place. It’s going to be tough, in large part because it’s the only home I’ve ever lived in for more than a few years in a row.

As a kid, my family moved so often it would have made more sense for us to reside in a covered wagon with cabalistic symbols painted on the sides. My dad could have sold snake oil while mom played the tambourine. We were like a military family without the military.

The practice of regular relocations followed me into adulthood. I’m not sure why. I think by then I was simply used to the idea of moving every couple years.

When The Former Mrs. T and I moved to our little house in the country, I reveled in the fact it was the last move I would ever have to make. For the first time in my life, I would put down roots and really be part of a community.

But life, apparently, has other plans for me.

The house – once upon a time “our” house – and all the dreams that went with it, will soon belong to someone else. I’m trying to not whimper like a wet kitten here, but it ain’t easy.

I wonder; will the home’s new owner know how many times I had to cut the molding in the upstairs bathroom before it matched up properly? Will he or she like the colors The Former Mrs. T chose for the living and dining rooms before she lit out for parts unknown? Will the home’s new occupant appreciate the dozens of trips we made to nearby farmers’ fields to “pick rocks” with which to landscape the back yard?

The answer, of course, is no.

All these things will be no more than memories. Eventually, even the memories will fade.

Life, we’re told, is defined by change. In every important way, life is change.

Just this once, I wish it wasn’t.

Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.