Man Jobs; Like Hacking Up Bears With Axes And Moving Heavy Things

So a couple weeks ago Roscoe was sitting on the couch and I stood directly in front of him. This is generally a sign that I’m going to ask him to do a man job. Man jobs in our house are classified as tasks that require power tools or lifting. It’s not that I can’t use power tools or lift things, the trouble is I don’t want to, so essentially that means that I won’t.

According to the PC Authority site this is both a power tool and an ax. Which makes it a man job squared equaling one shopping trip for unnecessary things that make me feel pretty in a marriage.( Photo Credit:

According to the PC Authority site this is both a power tool and an ax. Which makes it a man job squared equaling one shopping trip for unnecessary things that make me feel pretty in a marriage.( Photo Credit:

So there I am standing in front of Roscoe with a look on my face that those closest to me know is generally followed by a lot of grief on their part. Roscoe looks up and is not happy. This may be partially because he doesn’t want to use power tools or lift things (I know I never want to) but I suspect it’s because he’s still annoyed at me for dying his feet purple this past weekend.

In my defense, it was only part of his feet, the soles specifically and I also dyed my arms a bright violet up to the elbows, along with the majority of our bathroom. I had neglected to clean the tub before Roscoe needed to shower and hence, purple feet.

The Great Unwashed with a most innocent and endearing look on her face –“I dropped a book behind the bookshelf.”

Roscoe not being taken in by the seemingly angelic face The Great Unwashed is making –“What kind of book?”

The Great Unwashed –“A book I don’t want to read.”

Roscoe now returns his focus to his computer. The Great Unwashed continues to stand in front of him with a look of unconvincing sweetness on her face. Roscoe, realizing that this issue may not be over sighs and closes his laptop.

The Great Unwashed– “It may have been a library book.” Pauses. “ That’s overdue.” Pauses again as Roscoe starts to frown. “ By a lot.”

Roscoe sighing heavily and with a note of resignation – “Which bookshelf?”

The Great Unwashed– “The smaller one.”

Now I knew that the book wasn’t behind the smaller one, but I was hoping that if Roscoe moved the smaller one he might be able to reach the book I dropped behind the larger one without having to move it.

Roscoe grunts and complains about my choice of storage places for my library books but in a couple of minutes he moves the smaller bookshelf, reaches behind and hands me a hardcover.

The Great Unwashed – “Thank you, but that’s not my book, although this is another library book.” Roscoe is looking unimpressed at this point.

Roscoe– “That’s the only one behind there.”

The Great Unwashed in the most innocent manner possible– “It *might* have fallen behind the big bookshelf.”

More grunting. Annoyance in now radiating off of Roscoe from the top of his head down to his purple soled feet.

Finally, Roscoe with more than a hint of annoyance in his voice- “There are no books behind here.”

The Great Unwashed – “Oh. Oops!”

The book that I supposedly dropped turned up the next day. It was stuck in between the bedside table and the box spring. However three weeks ago I remember dropping two things behind the larger bookshelf. I blame the invisible house gnomes for moving one of my library books without asking permission. As for Roscoe the purple eventually washed off however he was forced to wear black socks and shoes for about two weeks to cover up the colour. I told him it was the price of being married to a beautiful, resourceful woman. (I was dying a shirt to give it a new lease on life.) He told me that I was a pain in the butt.

STOP! You’ll Kill Yourself!

You know all those studies that say married people live longer because you have someone to tell you to go to the doctor, eat nutritious food and just plain care about you? They’re all right, but I feel like they forgot an important element of marriage. Occasionally a person needs someone to tell them “Stop! What you’re doing is idiotic!” Whether it’s your husband about to snorkel with great white sharks or your wife taking the contents of the tool box to her feet.

Today I got to be the stupid one. As a result of running and wearing too many impractical shoes, I’ve developed massive corns on the sides of my pinky toes. If this is too much information for some of my readers, just be grateful that you aren’t married to a doctor- Roscoe recites the intimate details of gunshot wounds over soup.

The corns got so large last week that I decided to get some of those Doctor Scholl’s corn removers. Only I didn’t buy the Doctor Scholl’s kind. Roscoe is almost a doctor, which means we are still paying massive tuition fees every twelve months, so we eschew name brands in the name of not drowning in a tidal wave of red numbers.

I digress, the corn removers shrunk my pinky toes so they could fit into my shoes again (Hurray!) but they also left giant, unsightly calluses. I’m many things; a weirdo, a hippie, a tiny, spastic dancer but I am not a woman who takes good care of her nails. As a result we do not have a nail file in our house. Mostly because when my nails grow long enough to be cut or filed I bite them. However these gigantic calluses were bothering me, so while Roscoe was searching for a cord to hook up my little netbook to the television, I decided to problem solve. Heading to the front hall closet, I pulled out Roscoe’s toolbox, reached in, tore a small square off a large sheet of sandpaper, then put the box and the remaining sandpaper back.

Now I knew this wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had, however my husband is becoming a doctor, so I figured that if using sand paper on my feet was really bad, he’d stop me.

Juggling Fire

Clearly the best idea ever. A married man would never be allowed to do this.(Photo credit: dpup)

When a man makes the decision to juggle fire, somewhere after the first request “Honey? Do you know where I put my devil sticks?” but before heading out to the backyard with the blow torch, “We keep the lighter fluid in the garage right?” an alarm bell will go off in his wife’s head. A nosy “What are you up to?” from a concerned female will kibosh the whole idea pretty quick.

However Roscoe was on a hunt, so I had been sanding away at my feet for a good ten minutes before the “What the hell are you doing?” came. And then of course the sequitur “STOP that!”

So thanks to my marriage, I’m happy to announce my pinky toes are still intact. Roscoe is currently out purchasing a nail file.