If it's got an engine, men love it. If it goes fast, men will figure out a way to make it go faster. Men love anything that makes noise, spins, moves, or smokes. If it's big, make it bigger. If it's loud, make it louder. Men's stuff is always audible. Fishing rods whir. Boltaction guns "chuck." Cameras click. New stereo equipment sighs. From a toaster to a Stealth bomber, we're always trying to add more power.
Speedintensityvolumepower. Speedintensityvolumepower. The mantra of the modern man.
Men's zones are filled with men's stuff. The whole world is filled with men's stuff. I don't know why men have so much stuff. Maybe it's because we never listened to our mothers when we were kids. We should have cleaned up our rooms when she told us to.
No wonder the world is one big mess.
Many sociologists, mostly women-okay, only Dr. Joyce Brothers-have postulated that there are specific reasons why men have so much stuff. I haven't spoken to her personally, so I don't know what these reasons are. However, I believe men's fascination with tools, cars, stereos, computers, and collecting beer bottles from around the planet stems from the creation urge. Men can't have babies, so it's our way of feeling important and useful. This, more than an inherent fascination with socket wrenches, is what makes us want to crawl under the car and restrut the suspension, or change the oil every three thousand miles, and not mind when big globs of filthy petroleum product land smack on our foreheads. This urge to control something is what draws us to a shoeshine kit full of black, brown, and cordovan polish; and brushes and rags caked with spittle.
Having mentioned shoes, here's a question that's always nagged me: What is it with women and shoes, anyway? Women don't seem to realize that they can actually polish shoes in the home. They get a scuff and the shoes are as good as garbage. It's time to go shopping for another pair. If we could redirect the money spent on overpriced women's footwear, we could halve the national debt. Women have fifteen pairs of shoes in the closet, and that's just in black. There are slant‑back heels, half heels, spikes, pumps, espadrilles, and shoes that don't even look like shoes.
Don't tell me that being able to have babies eradicates all of women's compulsions.
For instance, the purse thing. Women have sixty purses, and I've still got the same wallet I made in camp.
There's not a man I know who would purposely look in a woman's purse. Purse snatchers learn this early. Grab the purse, dump the lipstick, earrings, cosmetics, tampons, datebook, car keys, combs and brushes, diet energy bars, sleeping bag, pup tent, Miata. Get the money. I've never looked in a woman's purse. Never opened one. A real man doesn't go into a purse. It's a no‑man's‑land. You can lose yourself in that thing. My wife once discovered $300 in her purse that she'd misplaced. How do you do that? I can understand misplacing the money, but in your own purse? But she looked in her purse and there it was, right next to the antique dresser.
My wife and I went to Florence, Italy, recently. She said she wanted to see Michelangelo's David and other classic works of art. She didn't tell me she'd discovered that Florence is where the purse was invented. We went shopping ten minutes after we'd checked into our hotel. They've got two streets of shops that just sell brown purses. My wife's eyes left their sockets! And then she was gone. I followed her into a store and there she was, "trying on a purse!"
"Just buy them all," I said. "We've got stuff to do. Great art to see."
"The David's waited this long," she said. "I don't think he's getting off his pedestal and going anywhere for the next couple of days. Besides, these purses are on sale and they're Italian. Now how 'bout this clutch? Too clunky?"
What could I say? My wife is just as confused when I try to explain why I need another tool I'm never going to use.
Meanwhile, she's modeling purses and I'm fighting off narcolepsy. I can't shop with women. I just get tired. I walk into the women's wear department of any store and my energy just goes to hell. I'm suddenly seven and in the backseat of the family station wagon, being lulled to sleep by the hum of the road. There's something about fluorescent lights in malls that makes me very weak. It's like they're made of kryptonite. (However, fluorescent lights in electronics stores make me feel suddenly energetic.) Women know this. That's why, instead of letting you go off and do your own shopping, they make you sit in those little student punishment seats by the dressing rooms. Then they waltz out in some god‑awful frou‑frou and say, "What do you think?"
You muster the stock answer. "Nice. Very nice." And then you follow with the appropriate shared "nod and smile" to the exhausted husband in the other chair.
Then she disappears and returns with a cocktail purse that matches the outfit. It's about the size of a maraschino cherry and it costs $3,000. At that price it should match any outfit. It just carries itself. Oh-and you can't fit anything in it.
"It's supposed to be decorative, honey."
Oh, the things you want to say, but don't.
- -
I love cars. Cars are my life. My wife is a bright corporate lady who could care less about cars. When we could finally afford to buy her any car she wanted, I asked her to reveal to me her heart's desire. Anything, anything, anything. ."
"Red," she said.
Boys fantasize about cars because cars mean only one thing: extending boundaries way past home. They represent adventure. You can drive across country. You can get out of town. Cars are freedom. Guys want power. Freedom is power. (Like most kids, I also fantasized about being a superhero. I liked Spiderman. And what did I want to use my new superpowers for? To get a car. That's me. Lofty goals.)
Women have a much more subtle approach to cars and the freedom they represent. Mainly, how to get in and out gracefully. How to dress so the guys with the cars will give them rides. The social niceties. They assume they'll be in cars, but they already know it's to their advantage not to own a car because of the equity problem, depreciation, and, with the exception of race driver Shirley "Cha Cha" Muldowney, they probably can't fix it, nor do they want to. Women are right to think that it's easier just to get someone to be the mechanic and chauffeur them around. This, next to having children and garbage removal, is the reason most women want husbands.
I like cars so much I'd hang around parking lots if I didn't think someone would call the police. I once went to a store to get wheel covers for my car, because someone had stolen them, and I could have spent the day there. When I drove in, a guy just getting out of his car at the same time said, "Nice wheels." In guy talk, that meant he thought I was a nice guy.
"What you got under the hood?" (He wants to know more about me.)
"Supercharged hemi." (I'm a forward thinker, a risk taker.)
"Where do you redline?" (Depends on what he is referring to.)
"Seven thousand rpm. Tops out around 140 mph." (I'm way too fast for you, buddy. But thanks for asking.)
One thing I'll always like about living in Los Angeles is that everybody has a car. Everyone has to have a car. Otherwise you've got to train for the marathon just to get some milk at the grocery store. Some of the homegrown custom‑car designs are a little tough to understand, though. Who came up with the idea of taking those teeny, tiny, mini pickup trucks with the little motors, and fitting them with huge tires and sound systems so loud I think we're having an earthquake aftershock every time a cruiser drives up my street?
Then there's the L.A. obsession with sports utility vehicles. Where I grew up, near the Rocky Mountains, we didn't have fourwheel drive. Just chains. Now everyone's got a Range Rover to announce their ability to rough it in style. It's now acceptable, even trendy, to answer the question "Do you do much offroading?" with "Nope. But I can if I ever want to." Or "What's offroading?" I was driving down the street and this guy in the Range Rover next to me was talking on the cellular phone, faxing something to his office, watching the ball game on his Sony mini TV, and making love to some woman. I think it was just his way of saying, "Look at me! Look at me!" I looked, but I still can't figure out who was driving the car.
The old Toyota Landcruiser was a real man's car. It looked functional. Now it's all styling. Range Rover makes a vehicle that looks like it's right out of Daktari. It's got a lion or an elephant guard on it. As soon as I saw it, I wanted one. I'd also love a Humvee, like Ah‑nold. "Maria. We will take the Hummer!" Anytime they make something that looks like it came from the military, you know lots of men are thinking, "Yeah, I like it." There's a purpose to military stuff that's attractive. It strikes deep into the core of man. And it's spread beyond the barracks. Construction equipment is built using the same principles of massive power and indestructibility. Except for the yellow color, I wouldn't mind owning a bulldozer. Drab olive is better. Everything looks better in drab olive, even bedsheets. One day I'll have a car that's flat green from bumper to bumper. And I won't wash it. The look will improve with age. Pretty soon the neighbors will be asking each other, "Did a bush with a gun barrel on it just go by here?"
One good thing about my car obsession is that I can fix my own vehicle. Or I could, until I got a Cadillac with the Northstar engine system. If the first scheduled maintenance isn't until 100,000 miles, why should I mess with it? There's probably a federal law against tampering with this engine. I was looking under the hood a couple of days ago and I found one of those tags like they have on mattresses, sticking out from under the windshield‑wiper‑solution container. It said, "We don't care if you remove this tag, but don't even think about touching anything else."
I have a couple of different dream cars. One is a maxed‑out Mustang that I helped design myself. I'd also love to own a Ferrari. I don't know what it is about them. I've wanted a black Ferrari since I was a kid. Do you think it's a coincidence that Testarossa sounds a lot like testosterone? I don't know if I'd ever be able to drive a Ferrari anywhere, though. I'd just feel like a stupid middle class guy, driving down the boulevard, trying to talk on the cellular, fax the office, watch TV, and make love to my wife, all without running a red light or annoying the guy in the Range Rover next to me.
Another vehicle I dream of owning is a long‑distance cruiser that's a cross between a van, a Mercedes, and a Corvette. It would have seats like an airplane so you could sleep, or kick the guy in front of you when he pushes the recline button and his tray table jams you in the balls. It could go off road, fly, dive underwater, and be totally self‑contained. I could live in it if the wife kicked me out. It would even be outfitted with metal‑fabricating tools so I could make my own parts if the vehicle broke down. And I could drive forever, never take a bath, and eat candy all day.
- -
Why do men like tools and stuff? Lots of people think it's social imprinting. I think they mean that schools make boys go to shop class and the effects are permanent. I'd rather have been in home economics-though I've yet to meet a woman who took that class who can discuss international monetary funds and World Bank theory with me-much less know what it really means to be economical. Those lifetime disappointments notwithstanding, even back in school it was already clear that girls and food are better than bending metal or making arty ashtrays.
Every shop class was the same. You never got anything done. There were so many rules and regulations for guys.
"Get your tool, stand by your stations, wait for instructions."
"Follow the yellow line back to your stations, begin your projects."
Five minutes later the warning bell rang.
"All right, go back to your stations, clean your tools, and get the hell out of my sight."
The shop teacher always wore a lab coat. I once saw a movie where a chimp wears a lab coat. That made about as much sense as Mr. Johnson pretending to be a professional. All my shop instructors were missing fingers, too.
"You gotta watch that circular saw, that baby'll kick back on you. I'm not joking around! Now somebody help me pass out these test papers."
Like I said, I'd rather have listened to a home ec. teacher with burnt flambe all over her face. "Girls, watch those flambes, they'll blow up. Look at these scars, I'm not fucking around!"
- -
If he problem with tool belts is butt cracks. The older journeymen wear suspenders. Young guys-you know, I think they like that butt crack. My brother is a contractor in Kalamazoo, he does apartments. When he and his contractor friends get together it looks like a butt‑crack festival. These guys gotta know what they're showing. Plumbers, because of the positions they've got to assume when working, have the worst butt‑crack problem in the world.
"Hey, Tony, look at that crack, that's gotta be eight inches."
"Uh huh. Pretty great, right?"
"Why don't you just wedge the house plans in there and walk 'em over to the supervisor?"
"Pete! Nice butt crack. What's that-a pencil holder back there?"
"Nice. But I brought my little girl and she's eating over here.
How about I spackle that son of a bitch shut? I got some DAP latex butt‑crack filler, how 'bout I run a bead of caulk down that fat ass of yours so she can keep her food down?"
Butt crack is like male cleavage. I'd like to design a line of drop jewelry for men. Butt‑crack ornamentation. Pearls and gold coins to enhance the natural lines. Pretty soon pants will be cut low for the more daring male, and "elective crack surgery" will be the latest craze. Now there's a "before and after" album I wouldn't like to see displayed in a plastic surgeon's office. I'm making myself sick.
I love tool belts, though, despite their shortcomings. Unfortunately, the perfect tool belt hasn't yet been invented. So I have three: a carpenter's, a general handyman's, and a barbecue belt. The last has a spatula, fork, and poker all on chains. You pull 'em out and they snap back. It's got ketchup, mustard, and Tabasco in little cases. My wife knows fm not just whistling Dixie when I'm wearing all three-naked-in the bedroom.
The ultimate belt wouldn't be a belt at all. It would be something designed by Porsche, Mercedes, Bosch, Black and Decker, Motorola, and Q, from the James Bond movies. You'd carry it in a little shoulder holster. It would be a little silver thing, all polished stainless steel, that contained a drill, saw, shaper, and glue gun. And it would be rechargeable. The Swiss army knife of tools.
But for now, I'm pretty fond of my handyman's belt. It's a big, fat strip of cowhide, with huge pockets and loops. I walk around with two Makitas slung low, like six‑shooters.
"Come on, honey. Break something. I dare you."
I walk around the house looking for things to rewire. I fixed Grandpa's hearing aid once because he kept saying "What?" every time I spoke to him. It was nothing, really, to give it more power. I stopped by Radio Shack, got some coaxial cable, a 160‑watt preamp, with Dolby. Gramps can hear fine now. On a clear night he can also pick up space‑shuttle transmissions.
- -
I bought a Makita mini circular saw. I just had to have it. I've used it once. However, my wife has used it a number of times, but never for its intended purpose, which is cutting wall paneling on the job site. You make little notches, then cut in and cut out. She uses it at home, blows the blade off, and says, "This thing doesn't work right."
"Well, honey, I'm not sure that you're supposed to use it to cut hair or chicken parts."
With some prodding she eventually started using my full‑size circular saw. It's hell on hair, but cutting the chicken is a snap. Cutting the chicken's hair takes practice.
As you've probably guessed, I get asked tool, construction, and repair‑related questions all the time by people who somehow have the idea that I know what fm talking about. Here are a couple of the most popular. I take no responsibility if you follow any of my advice, or believe a word of what I say. I'm warning you now.
Q: Does a guy really need a wrench set with twelve doubleheaded crescents, twenty sockets and driver, and ten Allens (no relation)?
A: You don't. I've got a multihead driver now that replaces everything in my toolbox. If I could only figure out how to work it. It's heavy and it clicks and it's substantial-which, for me, is half the reason to buy it-but it just sits there. Good thing I've got the old wrench set.
Q: Why do some screws have one‑slot heads and others have cross‑hatched Phillips heads? And who is Phillips, anyway?
A: Never met the guy. But someone told me that his misshapen head comes to a point, but folks don't dare talk about it since the murder-yes, with a screwdriver. Guess he's related to the milk of magnesia family. (What the hell is a magnesia and how do you milk it?) This seems reasonable since you need some milk of magnesia to calm your stomach after spending all day trying to get a Phillipshead screw out of the wall after you've stripped the slots in the first two minutes. And here's some more bad news. Now the hardware stores feature something called the star‑pad screw. The screw head is indented in the shape of a five‑pointed little twinkler. Now all the manufacturers are using it, which means that five billion screwdrivers are obsolete. Don't you wish you'd thought of that!
Q: What's the weirdest tool you ever bought?
A: Actually, it was a garden shredder. A garden machine, but still a tool, right? It was a major deal. A freight company had to deliver it to my door. A big diesel Kenworth pulled up in front of my house and two burly guys hauled the shredder off the truck. The thing has a twelve‑horsepower motor, and is all tricked out. Here's what it does: It grinds up wood right on your property.
Don't laugh. (Okay, my wife did, too.) I just wanted to get rid of all the twigs that had gathered during the year on my little acre‑and‑a‑half I've got a lot of big trees and they're always shedding. The guy made it look so easy on the commercial; his hair never moved. After using the shredder, the young couple on TV put the grounds in a blender and made mulch. They smiled all the while. You're supposed to put it on your junipers and related bushes. Unfortunately, I almost lost a leg trying to start the shredder because it was so powerful. And then it made so much noise just running I thought it was broken. So I got scared. All I could visualize was an index finger getting caught on one twig and then sucking me in like a guy who gets too close to the jet intake on an F‑14. My wife told me she wasn't looking forward to tending to my bloody stump just because I wanted to occasionally see the lawn. She also thought I was indulging in a little overkill.
"Aren't you using an atomic bomb to kill a mosquito?" Always so quick with a metaphor. "Just wrap up the twigs, take them to the street, and let the garbage man pick them up. I'm quite certain he won't break your leg or bloody your body. Better yet, burn them. That means you get to play with fire!" She sure knows how to push my buttons.
It was good advice. Now the shredder is moldering in the shed, right next to the lawn tractor I don't use anymore.
Q: How would you reinvent classic household tools?
A: I'd like to have an upright cordless vacuum cleaner. Also, a washing machine that lets you know when to put in the fabric softener. Not that I've ever vacuumed or done the laundry. I'd do it, though, if they'd design an iron, or a washing machine, or a clothes drier that a man would like. I don't need floral patterns, mushrooms, or birds on everything. I'm not even sure women do.
Q: Can you explain why plugs now have one prong bigger than the others, and can I alter the big one by hand at home and still use it safely?
A: It's all about polarities, to make all current run in the same direction. There's a big danger in alternating current. If you cross too many currents it will short out the whole system-possibly the planet. So they designed the new plugs to keep everything running in the same direction. I'm not sure I believe this, though. In fact, I'd like to know who gave them permission to change the plug, and maybe make one of his nostrils just a little bit bigger than the other.
On three‑pronged plugs, the round prong is the ground. The most serious electrical problem in America is having an appliance or a computer with a three‑pronged plug and only two‑pronged holes to plug it into. Just what are you going to do? Those little gray adapter plugs never stay in the wall. Plus they look ugly. So you go through a big guilt trip wondering if you should cut off the fat bastard.
"Nobody's watching. There's no cops here. What would happen if I just sliced that sucker right off?"
I'd do it, but fm still under the impression that somewhere in your neighborhood's power plant is one gauge designed to monitor this particular problem, that goes like this: "What th-? Some idiot snipped off that ground plug! All points bulletin. Send a squad car to Allen's house! We'll scare the crap out of him and he'll never do it again."
Good thing the first offense is only a misdemeanor, though I hear that if you cut off three prongs you're out.
I've never clipped the ears off the big‑sided prong. I bought a grinder to do that.
Q: What else would you like to improve around the house besides the plugs?
A: I wish the home's control center was more visible. I want more access to plumbing. And electrical wiring shouldn't be quite so hidden. My house wouldn't be real pleasant to look at; it would seem more like a submarine than a home, but I think there's a way you make the mechanics of the house more functional and still live with it.
I told the guy who's building a house for me my concerns. He said, "I can make this look like an office building if you want."
Yeah, that's just what I meant.
Q: You're so manly. What are you really good at around the house?
A: Mostly just hanging pictures. It's good work, a steady job. I use a hammer, and on special occasions a level. It's real exciting.
Q: Do you mind it when complete strangers ask you for home improvement advice?
A: A pilot did once. He knew I was on the flight and he came back to the passenger section from the cockpit. I saw him and my first thought was "Oh god. Please let the autopilot be on." Then he stared at me for a few seconds, trying to make up his mind about something, and I thought, "No, don't let him tell me that there's only one guy aboard who can land this 757, and that would be me."
Finally, he sat down, and from the corner of his mouth he said, "If my stucco went all the way down to the foundation and I was getting a leak, would I. ." I cut him off. Then I said, "What would you do?" Letting him figure things out for himself was my best option since I had no idea what the hell he was talking about.
- -
When it comes to more power, you can always find it on late‑night infomercials. And it's always something we've never heard about before in America but is supposed to be really huge in Europe.
If it's so great, why haven't we heard of it? And how come they're reduced to selling it with infomercials? How come the retail stores aren't lining up to get their hands on the newest miracle product? Is the phrase "not available in stores" something that is supposed to entice me? Is it better if it's available on the street corner? How come I'm supposed to always beware of imitations? How come they're always limited time offers? No wonder I have anxious bowel syndrome.
This reminds of the Psychic Hot Line, also advertised via infomercial. "Want to know the future, call the hot line. Your own personal psychic is waiting for your call." Yeah, right. When I call, I never tell them my name. Let them tell me! Most infomercials rely on the Boxcar Willie syndrome. He's huge in Europe but no one's ever heard of him here. I don't even know who he is! But if all of Europe (and remember, Hungary and Bulgaria are also part of Europe) is wild about a car wax that protects your car's finish so well that you can light a fire on the hood and leave no marks, you've got to wonder if we've even been talking to Europe lately. Phone lines down? Have we not communicated with these people for months at a time?
Here's what I think. In Europe, the infomercials say the product is bigger than Moses in America. And the truth is that we have warehouses full of some crap we bought in Taiwan and can't get rid of.
The last time I bought anything by mail was from the Sears catalog. I could trust them. But now the catalog is gone. Too bad, since they had everything in there, including beekeeping equipment. Sounds just like a company that kept good tabs on their customers' needs.
Actually, I did buy one tool from a TV ad. I've never taken it out of the box, though. So does that count? From what I could see on the infomercial, the thing is a wonderful tool, so practical it has a thousand and one uses-but I've never been able to get it out of the box. Guess I need one of those tools to help. I hear it gets into tight places that no screwdriver could ever fit.
My favorite is the magical lubricant that the hucksters spray on the sparkplugs and distributor cap of a running engine. Then they turn a fire hose on the engine. Most engines will stop dead if you drive through a puddle fast enough. But this thing just kept running.
How come we don't know about this? Has anybody told the drivers at Indy? Hell, I'm going to call NASA myself.
- -
Real men get really dirty, and they need something strong to clean up with. I like Lava soap, the soap for men. Lava can wash those grease‑stained palms and hairy arms and filthy fingernails. There's also Go‑Jo, that cream auto mechanics use. Wipe it on-you don't need water-and wipe it off with a rag. I think it works by removing the top layer of skin. Yet it's easy on your hands because it's made with lanolin. I know lanolin comes from sheep. (Do sheep know lanolin comes from sheep?) I think Go‑Jo, is made from the whole animal ground up. It's full of oil and it's got a really bad odor. But it works, and with an ounce of imagination, it makes you feel like a real mechanic. Go‑Jo will take off anything, including chrome. It also works wonders making French fries.
- -
Jerky, from a cow, a buffalo, even a turkey, is nature's most perfect food. Beef jerky is a grown‑up's V‑8 juice. It makes you feel like a real cowboy. I reach for my jerky when I want something not sweet but substantial. Which reminds me of a story.
I once met a guy in a club in Texas who had shot a boar. Shooting it was illegal, but he said it had come after his dog. It was probably more like "Honey, let the dog out now, okay?"
Once it was good and dead, he brought the boar to the club, wrapped in towels. Why he'd want to use his wife's nice red towels to wrap a boar, I don't know, but from the look on his face when he slapped it down on the table, it was clear that if I didn't eat some, he'd think I was a puss, and he'd slap me. "You want a bite of it now? It's a fine taste."
"Uh-yeah. Sure."
And I ate it. It was possibly the finest taste I'd ever had in my life. I was rolling it around in my mouth when he looked me straight in the eye and said, "You don't think I'd bullshit an entertainer, do you?"
My first thought was that he was just waiting for me to fall to the ground and hold my stomach so that he could say, "I hate guys like you."
And now excuse me a second.
"Honey, let the dog out now."
- -
The Victoria's Secret catalog is one of the finest modern‑day examples of men's stuff. Why some people think it's women's stuff, I don't know.
Men are very different around women than they are around themselves. Imagine four guys-with their wives-looking at the Victoria's Secret catalog.
"That would look good on you, honey."
"That's a nice uh. . what do you call that thing?"
"A camisole."
"Yeah. Yeah. It's you, honey. How about if we order that?"
"How sweet! Give me your credit card."
Now: four guys by themselves:
"Wow. What I could do with her."
"Wish my wife looked like that."
"That bustier is tighter than my. . oh, oh, here come the girls. Honey, hi. Isn't this a great look?"
"Just give me your credit card and I won't say another thing." The Victoria's Secret catalog revolution happened quickly and quietly. It just took off. No Morality First groups complained about its being too sexy or pornographic like some other magazines. It goes through the U.S. mails without a hassle. Every guy knows the models' names by heart. This is one reason that men, no matter how much they hate shopping with their wives or girlfriends, are always willing to make an exception and stop by the Victoria's Secret store at the mall. Never seem to feel sleepy there.
You never know when Jill Goodacre will pop by.
- -
If men have tools, so do women.
Women as a rule have different priorities. Their tools come in a cosmetics box, which is just a fishing‑tackle box, only for women. Operating on the "real men don't ever look in a woman's purse" principle, I've never snuck at peek in a woman's cosmetic kit. I'm afraid of what I'd find. Shampoo, combs, and brushes are no big deal, but what's that scissor thing with a half moon of foam on it. I've seen one lying around, but I still can't figure out what it's for. Taking the eyeball out and dusting or something? Don't fiddle with women's stuff when they're not around, either.
"What happened to my eyeliner pencil? Did you touch it?"
"Ohhh. The phone rang, I couldn't find anything else to write with. It's just a pencil, I'll go replace it." Thirty‑eight bucks and a decent command of the French language later. .
Epilady is a woman's tool that has always confused me. The only thing louder than that machine is her screams as it rips the hair from her body. It was the most returned gift ever at Kmart. And they took it back, though they don't generally take personal hygiene products back-for good reason. But women had no idea how rough the Epilady was. And when they found out, and tried to give it to their husbands, there were no takers.
"No thanks. I'd rather not rip the hair off my face. I'm going to need it again tomorrow."
Note: Don't put women's underwear on your head and run around making faces. If you must experiment, try it when she's gone. You can look in the mirror longer, and you're much freer to express yourself. I recommend her bikini briefs, ears through the holes, and going nuts to the Tijuana Brass Whipped Cream on Top album. You know the green cover with that naked girl hidden by Reddi Wip? Oh, and for god's sake be sure to pull the shades. Wow. I was just making that stuff up. You didn't think that I. . I was just saying that. I don't do that. Unless you do that. Do you do that? If you do that, then I may have done that once-or twice. Unless you haven't. Then I was just kidding.
Women use stuff like concealer powder. Lamb placenta. Lamb placenta from Estee goddamn Lauder. I'm guessing it's lamb placenta from a lamb, but they know best.
"It's from Europe!"
"Yeah. I'll bet it's the rage in Bulgaria." Now there's an attractive bunch of women.
I can't buy my wife anything without gems in it anymore. Often she tells me to buy her stuff that I'd want to see.
"We've been married for years. Just use your instinct."
So I bought her a bench grinder. That pissed her off.
"Well, if you're not going to use it, I'll just store it in my shop." I wanted to smooth things over, so I got her a scissors sharpener from QVC: "It eliminates the worry of sharpening scissors at home!" When I heard that, I was half drunk with anticipation. My Visa card was so excited it dialed the 800 number itself. Now that I can sharpen all my scissors, I'll save all that time. I'd forgotten that I'd never sharpened a pair in my life! I've got the same bent‑up pair I had in high school. When I was little, my mom had some good scissors in a little velvet case, in the safe‑deposit box. She put them there after I tried to use them to trim my little brother's ear lobes. She caught me and screamed: "Don't touch the good scissors for god's sake. They're from Europe!"
Some people think a vibrator is the ultimate women's tool. Not me. I think women would rather have lipstick than a vibrator. Lipstick makes them look pretty. A vibrator just makes them look scary. I'm a little suspicious of those neck vibrators and body massagers I see in the gift catalogs. Why do they list them by inches: seven, nine, eleven. Isn't that just a little odd? Even so, I've never heard of a big run on vibrators. But a new shade of lipstick, with a $30 "free" makeup‑kit gift with purchases of $6,000 or more. This is what women want. A tip: Stay away from department stores during cosmetic specials. It would hurt less to be run over by a buffalo stampede.
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I once went to Sears to buy a workbench. I thought it was about time. Sears had a sale on. It came in a big, big box and there was some assembly required. There were instructions, but I didn't need those. Hey, I'm a guy; my balls will tell me how it all fits together. At that point in my life I didn't have many tools except those in a telephone drawer by the kitchen phone. Unfortunately, something was stuck in the drawer and I couldn't open it. Finally, I heard a snap, and the drawer opened. Inside was a picture of another family. Also, pens that didn't work, broken rubber bands, seven batteries. Four are good, three are not, and you will never figure out the combination.
Clearly I needed some tools, so it was back to Sears. I had to buy so many tools that I didn't want to make two trips. So I rented a Ryder truck. I backed that big diesel turbo up to the loading dock and hauled out half the tool‑department stock. Now I got your needle‑nosed, vice‑grippin' monkey's mother, three‑quarter drive and socket‑pulling, inside‑outside torque jig rip cross. . Yeah, I got myself some tools. Tools that fix tools. Most of them rubber‑coated for safety. And duct tape. No shop in America is complete without ninety feet of three‑inch‑wide U.S.‑made duct tape. The silver kind. My wife thinks it looks good across my mouth, too. Matches her jewelry. My motto: If you can't fix it, duct it!
My mom once gave me a gas grill, a Sunbeam 3200. Dual burners, rotisserie grill, pull‑down serving area, and in a handy garden cart. But it came unassembled. It looked like a car bomb.
I decided to build it right in the living room and give the whole family a chance to participate. Besides, the light was better indoors and I was flying on pure instinct. Who'd have thought there'd be any grease involved in the process? Every guy's been where I've been. You finish building it, it looks great, but there's a weird bag of important‑looking stuff left over.
"Honey? Why don't you try the grill out first? I'll be in the basement with my welding hat on."
She pushed it out onto the deck and lit it up. Suddenly the place looked like a nuclear test site. Whoosh!
"Ahhhhhhhh!"
"Honey, run toward my voice!
"Running just makes the flames hotter!"
"That means this thing that's left over is a fuel regulator! Not supposed to spray your hair like that. Guess I don't need to tell you, do I? Why don't ya come in and I'll put some salve on that for ya."
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The thing I like most about men's stuff, from tools to stereos, is that your presence affects your possessions. When they glitch, it's probably because you're in a hurry or a bad mood. I've got two TVs at my house that, if I'm in a real bad mood, don't turn on. I called Sony about it. The man says, "I wouldn't touch it if you're in that mood. Don't go near your stereo either."
I decided to also avoid the houseplants.
This is when you finally realize that guy stuff has gotten stupid. It should have been easy to tell the first time I had to read the VCR instruction book more than I got to watch videotapes. And another weird thing. In my video room it's always twelve o'clock.
When men's stuff starts affecting the time zones, you know it's time to spend more time with your family.