Am I a man? Yes, technically I am.

The original title of this blog post was going to be "I am not good at fixing things, and generally make our house look worse." It was going to be, as you may have guessed, about how I am not good at fixing things. Instead, I have decided to get all philosophical on your heiny (my spellchecker says this should be Heinrich). Brace yourselves.

The other day we were at Lowes to buy a new ceiling fan for our bedroom. 1991 had called and said it wanted our old one back. My inward man was saying, "A ceiling fan! Great! I get to install a ceiling fan! Installing things, fixing things, that is a mannish thing to do!" However, another part of me was curled up in the fetal position on the floor of the Museum of Somewhat Shoddy Home Improvement Projects, because it knows: I am not good at fixing things.

Some guys make it look so easy, you know? My father in law is one of those. He can build a deck, do some plumbing, do some electric wiring, build a house, raise a barn, shoe an ox, build a car. All sorts of cool stuff. He makes it look very easy. His hands are large. The things he builds seem to turn out very professional-ish.

Whenever I begin a project, though, it doesn't turn out like that at all. Things don't seem to fit together. One side is longer than the other. I buy the wrong kind. I force something and crack it. In the end, I'm sweating, angry, and have given the wife and kids a Spanish vocabulary lesson they probably didn't need. I have girly hands. Carny hands. Circus Folk. Nomads, you know. Smell like cabbage. Small hands.

Now don't get me wrong. I have done a few things more or less successfully in the home improvement realm (disclaimer: my father in law helped me with spme of these), a few of which include:

• I did some sheetrocking to patch some holes in the walls of the closets


• I have now installed two ceiling fans
  
  


• I hung a door downstairs
  


• I fixed a cabinet/shelf thing in the kitchen
  


• I took apart our tub drain, but I was unable to fix it. It was just too much for me. I called the plumber in shame. I know he was mocking me inside.

There might be a few more, even. But the point is, it is not something I am very good at. It does not come naturally to me. And it seems like that sort of thing is the sort of thing a Man should be good at.

So, I've been thinking. What makes a man a man? Am I am man? Yes, technically I am. I've decided to make a list of manly things to see if I am good at them or not:

• I can provide for my family. I suppose "Software Engineer" is not the first thing that comes to mind when you think of a manly job. Not like "contractor," or "ice road trucker," or "some sort of monster crab hunter." But it is a job where I'm respected and where I get to use my brain to solve problems. And it pays really well. Verdict: manly man.


• I am not particularly strong and/or muscled. Most girls could beat me up, unless I were to resort to dirty tricks, like throwing sand in their eyes. (Ladies, I do not consider myself above doing this, so be on your guard.) Verdict: girly man.


• I can sing, play the guitar, and write songs. Chicks used to dig it. (If you want to hear some of my songs that I recorded in high school and college, you can check out my (shudder) MySpace page, or see this post on our old blog.) Verdict: manly man.
  


• I am not good at sports. Specifically, team sports like basketball, baseball, football, etc. However, I am a fair golfer, I am an outdoorsman, and I can probably outski most of you. Verdict: tie.


• I am a generally successful hunter. Verdict: manly man.
  


• I have proven myself capable of reproducing, twice. With Ana we didn't hardly even try. Verdict: manly man (technically).


• I hate watching sports on TV. I mean, I really don't ever do it. I think the last professional sports game I have watched on TV of my own free will (minus the SuperBowl, which I watch for the ads and for the snack food) was in the 90's. Verdict: girly man.


• I can open most cans and jars that my wife cannot open. She says she has loosened them up for me, but I think she is saying that to make herself feel better. Verdict: manly man.


• Like Gaston, every last inch of me is covered with hair. I also have the butt-chin. Verdict: manly man.
  


• I just quoted a Disney movie, specifically Beauty and the Beast. Verdict: girly man.

Hm. I'm not sure there's a clear winner here.

But you know what? Maybe it doesn't matter that I'm not sports-oriented, or that I can't build stuff out of wood. I'm a good father. My kids love me. My beautiful wife and I have a terrific marriage. I honor my priesthood.

I may not be Chuck Norris. I guess I'm not the typical stud-muffin. But I'm happy with who I am, and I guess sometimes that's good enough.

She's three!

Good times had by all. Such was Rebekah's birthday yesterday.

Seth and I were downstairs already when she woke up and found us. I wished her a happy birthday, and she immediately wanted to know where the "thing" in the back of the van was.

Back story: The day before I had secretly bought her present, then put it in the back of the van. I pulled it out of the sack to show while at my parents' house, and when the girls and I got home, Bekah unbuckled herself and found the present. She wanted so BADLY to know what it was, but I said she needed to wait until her birthday the next day.

So when she asked for it, Seth and I pulled out a giant gift bag where she finally got to learn what the "thing" was. Play dishware and plastic food. Hooray!

Rebekah enjoying a cup of tea. Later, Seth asked for peppermint tea. She said she didn't have any. So I asked her what kind of tea it was. Her response: "Metamorphosis tea."

She and Ana occupied themselves with that for quite a while. Then we packed up and went to the zoo to celebrate all our family's spring birthdays. Seth's favorite part of the zoo trip is the dire warning he received from Bekah in the petting zoo. She was very wary of the goats, and so she whispered in her daddy's ear, "Daddy, let's get out of here before the goats get us" in a very sincere tone.

Needless to say, she survived those ferocious goats.

She doesn't like the goats, yet she gladly took a drink from the lion's-mouth-drinking fountain ...

She bravely rode on a tiger's back. Granted, they were fake animals, and the goats were real. Too real for Bekah.

After lunch and naps, Bekah got to check out her new pool. That's right. We got a pool. Check out our awesome coolness:

That's one mighty fine pool there. Seth was brave enough to join her.

Bekah had to chase the beach ball because it was windy.

Then it was dinner and the traditional birthday cake. Bekah got to pick out the cake type. Thank you, Better Homes and Gardens, for the idea and instructions. You're a lifesaver.

Monkey cake and Rebekah. Ana eagerly awaits her piece in the background.

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finger-lickin' good

Babies and toddlers are messy. I get that. But last night's high chair scene was ... well, all I can describe it as is "carnage." See for yourself:

Nothing escaped the smearing hands of Ana.

But at least she seems to enjoy it.

The mouth. The hands. The bib. The cup. The horror!

She acted very interested in the camera, but I won't even let her touch it with clean hands.

What was so incredibly smash-into-the-mouth-with-both-hands delicious? Check out the recipe below. Bekah loved it too.

Peach Melba Salad

1 cup cottage cheese
1 large can sliced peaches, drained
1 carton Cool Whip, thawed
1 3 oz. package raspberry Jell-O
1/4 cup maraschino cherries

In a large salad bowl, spread 1/2 of the cottage cheese, then layer with half of the peaches (I chopped them so they were Ana-mouth sized) and half the Cool Whip. Sprinkle Cool Whip with half of the Jell-O powder. Repeat layers. Top with cherries (I cut them in half). Chill and serve.

put a cap in it

Imagine this: it's 6:15 AM. I'm awake: one of the girls has needed re-tucking in, birds outside our window have woken me up, I need to check to see if the toilet is still working. Something like that. Anyway, I've got to get up for work in a half hour or so anyway, so I rub my eyes and wander downstairs and turn on the computer. "I'll check my blog roll," I think. "That'll kill a few minutes."


So I start opening up your blogs, middle-clicking the links until five or six of them are open in my browser's tabs. Then it happens. A deafening cacophony, an unintended medley of U2, Googoo Dolls, Doughtry, Rascal Flats, and Roy Orbison. My gears grind as I click to each tab, searching for the pause button.


Well, no more.


Thanks to Adblock Plus, a terrific add-on for Firefox, I have added rules to block ALL of your music players. HA! I've retaken control of what was once mine. I don't come stand outside your window, boombox blasting Peter Gabriel, and now, I'll listen to my music on my own time. Ha, ha!


Rant over. If any of you, gentle readers, are peevish at me, I present this nugget of hilarity as a peace offering so we don't have to resort to fisticuffs. I'd probably give you what for, anyway.





(It won't run automatically, you have to click play. Manners, you know.)