Feministing

No sooner am I back from the French Alps when reality sets in: laundry to wash, bills to pay, a lawn to mow and a dog to walk. It's frustrating being the man of the house but somebody's got to do it and, no offense Rocco (my Goldie), but your too old and too lazy to take the lead. And despite blackened fingers and a deep slice to my middle knuckle the lawnmower sputters back to life- no thanks to testosterone.

It's a proud moment - when the stuff I fix actually gets FIXED rather than merely bandaiding a problem back together. After the lawnmower, I set my sites on replanting tulip bulbs, hoeing the compost pile, taking the dog for a splash at Normanskill and checking out a late night flick with my "prego" friend Deb. She's busting at the seams but prettier than ever! Still, I'm lonesome for the protection of my Mountain Gods from Chamonix. Not that the French Alps could help transplant hydrangeas for me but I bet that beautiful sunshine couldn't hurt.