Like them, appreciate them, adore them for their ability to wade in there and … fix stuff. I like them for all those qualities and more, although sometimes they exasperate me, and I have been exposed to slightly more than my statistical fair share of total male fahrk-quads. Twenty years in the military will do that to you. At best, it’s an 85% plus male-dominated profession, and one is guaranteed to observe them in their masculine glory and also at their absolute piggish worst. But on the whole, I like men when they shoulder responsibility, when they are stand-up great co-workers, when they are good in bed and fantastic with amusing children, when they come to your physical and emotional rescue – which they will do – and when they give those perfectly thoughtful and slightly skewed gifts. From one long-time Significant Other, I got a birthday-Christmas present of two pallets of bricks. Yes, but it was what I really-oh-truly-oh-really wanted and I had said so. Dad once gave me a metal tool-box as a Christmas present, for pretty much the same reason.
After following all the directions given for making cheeses last fall, to include covering the various wheels with wax – we stashed the results on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator to age.
After inadvertently stopping up the kitchen sink, and then going to a lot of effort, ultimately successful, to unstop it, I feel satisfaction and accomplishment as though I had done a good day’s work. I will sleep well. But it’s all an illusion since I have merely undone an annoying situation that I created myself by my own boneheadedness. Nothing was really accomplished. However, if I did something boneheaded out in the desert or wherever and almost got killed but escaped by the skin of my teeth it might be called a great adventure. Does this mean that context is everything, that adventure is overrated or that I am overthinking this?