Preserving Manhood

Although I do my best to maintain a measure of charisma for my wife, elements of unfiltered manhood still manage to find their way out.

When we were dating, I was able to restrain my inner-man. Maybe I even primped it up a little: it wasn't uncommon for me to use the soap long enough to work up a lather, or push back a cuticle gone wild. Heck, I even purchased a can of Axe body spray. It had a psychedelic green-flame on the side; below the flame was the word "KILO." The stuff smelled like a Colombian drug lord. Anyway, I did my best to be dapper; I had girl to win over.

But all that sissyness would be offset when a date with my spouse-to-be was over. After I dropped her off and kissed her goodnight, I'd go home to wallow in Taco Bell wrappers with my roommates and watch ESPN until our eyes rolled into the back of our heads.

Now that I'm married, I have to be a little more creative in where and when I find my release--my chance to let it all out and be a man. Thus in everyday circumstances, I find low-key ways to validate my manhood.

When walking through the mall with my wife, I like to size up the other guys I see around. I mentally debate whether I could take them or not, if something were to go down. That's how a man has to live his life, as if something could go down at any time... even at church.

A real man has to look for opportunities to bare his chest. For example, no man should ride in the back of a truck with his shirt on. The great outdoors, or any place you can spit on the ground, beckons men to be free of neck lines and sleeves.

Stadiums and arenas are also good places to remove the shirt, but you must enjoy it while it lasts. From personal experience, I've found that on-hand security can be just as demanding as my wife in making me put it back on.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not a male bigot, or the like. But I do feel that the line separating masculism from feminism is being blurred. Men, do you know the feeling you get when you're in Footlocker checking out what you think are some cool shoes, only to find out you're in the women's section? If you're like me, you jump to the ground like a marine under artillery fire and crawl back to the men's section.

Well, that kind of thing is going to happen as long as the dang retailers keep selling pink shirts in the men's clothing department! And it's not just pink shirts, they now sell girl's skinny jeans in the men's section--which apparently is one of the latest waves of fashion to roll through the wardrobes of weak men.

Retailers might as well take down the signs indicating the men's and women's clothing sections, and just throw the whole mess into a big pile in the middle of the store. It's apparent that people these days want to end gender segregation in the world of fashion.

Take a stand, men. What we choose to do now will determine what type of men our sons' sons will be. A few wayward steps, and they could end up right back in the Colonial period.

Nopalitos

Since my wife works and goes to school, we evenly split all our domestic responsibilities: she cleans the bathroom, washes the dishes, cooks the meals, folds the laundry, polishes the silver, mops the floor, and vacuums the carpet--I water the house plants and grocery shop.

As my wife fully understands, I can't hold my own in a clothing store. But gosh, I sure can blaze trails in the grocery store isles. That's right, I thoroughly enjoy shopping for food. I see every trip I take to the market as an opportunity to refine my tastes and broaden my palate.

One of the things I love most about grocery shopping is the thrill of racing home perishable food in perishable conditions. Like an EMT rushing a Coleman cooler full of vital organs to an awaiting hospital, I race home my grocery bag full of ice cream to an awaiting freezer. The longer it sits in the heat, the less good it's going to do the recipient.

On one of my recent shopping trips, I purchased a 5.48 lb container of "Dutch Milk Chocolate Drink." I didn't fully realize how big it was until I opened the can and found not one oxygen-absorbing packet, but TWO.

My first glass of Chocolate Drink gave me a stomach ache. But now that I'm past the break-in period, it goes down smooth as velvet.

You know you're in for a surprise when the noun "drink" follows an adjective like "orange," "cherry," or "chocolate." Orange juice is the liquid from an orange. Orange drink is the liquid from a garden hose, mixed in a large container with a powdery substance composed of sugar, chalk, and artificial flavoring.

During another recent grocery-shopping trip, I was wandering aimlessly through the produce section, my second favorite section of the grocery store (foreign foods is my first). I came across a quaint little basket of cactus leafs, or nopalitos, as my Mexican friends call them. The thought of getting nutritious substance out of such a feisty plant intrigued me.

I carefully placed two of them in a produce sack, finished my shopping, and headed to the check stand. As the cashier was hastily ringing my groceries across the scanner, he carelessly grabbed the bag of napolitos to ring them up.

"What the [edit] was that?!" he said, as he looked at the inside of his hand. Little dots of blood began to sprout up on his palm and fingers. "We sell cactus?"

I ducked behind the credit card machine and mumbled something like, "oh sure, my wife makes them all the time; they're good with, um, bagels and... " I trailed off until a new cashier was called in as an emergency replacement, and I finished my purchase.

I got the epidermis-piercing nopalitos home and asked my wife if we could include them in our next meal. I had to convince her that since they were in the grocery store they must be good for consumption. She finally agreed to make them, and we had cactus leaves in our soup the next day. It was actually really good, if you ate around the cactus chunks.

Bounced

This week I joined the lousiest, lowest, most-worthless folks in society. In other words, I could've sat down to a friendly turkey-dinner with Bill Clinton, Monica Lewinski, and Vanilla Ice (being cautious to keep Lewinski from eating all the turkey), and been in good company.

Sooooo... I bounced a check. Yes, I understand the consequence of admitting that. There's not a snowball's chance in heck you'll ever talk to me again, let alone read one of my articles. If there's one thing I've learned from life, it's this: people that DON'T bounce checks don't hang around people that DO. But before you start to judge me, or before you judge me even more, or before you tear up that check I sent for your birthday, understand that it was the government's fault.

I had just finished filing my taxes through H&R Block Online (which was, by the way, a horrible experience and I'd rather try to file my taxes through my 4-year old niece than use their Online software again). And as a side note, if you didn't get that birthday check I just mentioned, please contact my new accountant.

For the first time in my short history of doing my own taxes, I actually owed money after filing. Apparently I had been stealing money from the government throughout all of 2007, which I did by exaggerating my exemptions on my W-2s. And they wanted the dirty dollars back.

So instead of fleeing the country with my exemption cash, I took a couple more gulps out of my 2-liter Shasta Zazz (to numb the upcoming pain), wrote out a healthy-sized check to the IRS, and dropped it in the mail right-a-way. Turns out the 'ol Postal Service is processing letters a good deal faster than normal. And as soon as the IRS got my check in their hands they made a beeline to the nearest 7-11 and cashed it, well before I had a chance to look on the internets to see if I needed to transfer any more money to my checking account. Anyway, the check bounced around my checking account like a steel marble in a pinball machine--only to be sent down the gap between the two flippers. Game over.

Upon finding out, my self esteem was as low as Death Valley. I had just bounced a check! My word was no good, because that's what a check is. It's your word on the line that says you've got as much money as you wrote out. I figured my family would disown me, our electricity would be turned off, and my credit would be left in ruins. Luckily, the next day my bank stepped in and patted me on the back with a nice, warm $40 insufficient-funds fee.

Yeah, it's one thing to bounce a check, it's another thing to bounce a check to the IRS. So I'll be busy getting my receipts in order... I'm sure there's an audit coming my way.

Mistaken for Something Great

As I watched my three-point shot fall short of the hoop in my latest city-leage game, I felt the regular flare of frustration that comes everytime I play ball. And no, I didn't need just a little more "umf" on the shot; it was also wide left. It was the kind of airball that brings the game to a halt so the ref can jog off the court and get the ball from underneath the bleachers.

You see, I'm one of those guys who thinks he's got this large mass of talent bundled up inside him, but just hasn't had a chance to unleash it... and fails to every time he plays. But in my head, and always in my head: the next game will be the time I go off for 30.

You put me alone on a court, in front of a hoop, and I'll make a good 50% of my shots. But if I take a shot in a game, there's about a 13% chance it'll rattle its way in; 8% if I'm wide open. For some darned reason, every time I'm about to shoot in a game, the rim raises 3 feet, the ceiling lowers 15 feet, and a little green troll scampers across the court, distracting the heck out of me.

So that's why I'll never forget the time I was in Footlocker and something great happened. Well, two great things happened. One, I finally found the wheat-colored pair of FUBU boots I'd been searching up and down the entire Wasatch Front for. Two, the guy behind me in the check-out line asked me if I played basketball for BYU.

Granted, I had just buzzed my hair, was wearing a BYU Basketball shirt, and was about to buy a pair of FUBUs. Plus I was with my wife, who looks like the wife of someone who is successful at something. But still, asking that question is like asking Donny Osmond if he opens for 50 Cent concerts. He could've just asked me to crumple up my reciept and try to arc it into the nearest wastebasket, in order to clear things up. But instead, I told him I wasn't on the team and walked off, dreaming of dropping 30 points in my next game.