You absolutely cannot find the important piece of paper you moved from your wallet to a secure, safe place. So you wouldn't lose it.

You set the alarm for fifteen minutes earlier than normal just so you won't be late again, and end up setting it for PM instead of AM.

Every door you pull on is a push; every door you push is a pull.

Every Pat, Chris, Robin, and Connie you address as Miss on the phone turns out to be a Mister: every Brett, Kim, Alex, and Aaron you address as Mister turns out to be a Miss.

You finally take your car in to get the noise checked out. Five minutes after you sit down in the waiting room, the mechanic comes back with the stick that was stuck under the wheel well. You drive away, whistling. Four blocks later you get a flat.

You write the greatest piece, paint the finest painting, or compose the most wonderful melody of your creative life, and you're better half says, "Uh, I don't get it."

You keep hearing ten seconds of this song, but just ten seconds and always the same ten seconds. No matter what, you never turn the radio on and catch the beginning of it or the name of it. Every day, you ask anyone you talk to, “Hey, have you heard that song that goes, ‘Hmmmm, hmmm, dum, dum?’” And no one has the slightest idea what you're talking about.

You decide to let this pagan in the car next to you (who somehow missed the eight “Merge Left” signs) into your lane. Two seconds later he stalls, and then he gives you that palms up, shoulder shrug thing to you as he looks in his mirror.

All the way home from work, you think about that last dish of Fudgey Peanut Butter Triple Crunch sitting in the freezer you hid as well as you could. You open the front door, and your greeting is three young smiling faces. With chocolate O's around their mouths.

Ever had a week like that? I know you have. And while I'm sitting here, putting the finishing touches on this, one thought dominates:

What else could go wr

There's that book that's been around for some time, "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus," and I'll have to read it one day.  I hope it celebrates differences, rather than point out and try to fix.  One day we’ll be on Mars and know for sure, won’t we?  

When us fellas get back to Mars, we’ll find utopia.  Jam packed with . . . oh, man!  Endless plates of cold cuts, “. . . do you like good music?"  Children that don't need to be asked, 1967 and 1968 GTO's for everyone, and s-p-o-r-t-s year round.  We'll know it's Mars the minute we land.  As we walk off the rocket, one person will immediately begin scratching our back.  Just the way we want.  Women will scratch their heads, thinking it weird, but men will know they've landed in the Place of All Places.  

See, women believe - maybe they started it - the myth that men are just visual, all senses and no emotion.  They believe our utopia would cater to the senses, full of bright colors, packed with food, drink, and good times.  Well, it'd have that, but that's not all. 

Now, some women might not like to hear that, "I want to provide for you," thing.  I didn't say take away from, I just said it is in our nature to provide, that's all.  You are what you are, least that’s the way I feel.  So, the designated back scratchers would not be pea-brained super models.  No sir, nothing as shallow as that.

*Holds his hand up high*

A friend and I spent an evening watching his son’s baseball practice. Any time you want to sit and watch a game, call me, because it’s my favorite way to spend an hour or two.

“Hey, you guys!” the coach yelled, “Step into it, you guys are backing away from the plate, gotta step into it. Don't be afraid of the ball. It'll sting for a minute if it hits you, but that's all.”

When I was eleven, they let me pitch. For me, it was the safest place on the field because I refused to go near a batted ball. I loved baseball and still do, but if you saw me at eleven years old you would not mistake me for that kid over there, the one with even an ounce of talent. Mine you’d measure in atoms. Nano atoms, maybe.    

Best pitcher in the American League that year was a Boston’s Jim Lonborg. He threw a fastball, an evil overhand curve if I remember correctly, and he threw the brush back pitch. If you don't know, the brush back is a pitch hurled close to the batter's chin, the idea being to startle him away from the plate so he's not so eager to face you the next time. Lonborg threw it, and kept batters off the plate. He also hit about nineteen guys. 

At first, I was happy to get the ball within a few zip codes of home plate. With some practice, there were actually a few strikes with all the pitches. This skinny eleven-year-old just wanted to pitch like his hero, and one day the inevitable happened. 

"Hey, Kevin, I think it's time for us to have a garage sale.  When are you working the next few weeks?"

"During the garage sale."

"But I haven't told you when it is?"

"Oh . . . well, let me know.  I'll . . . um . . . help."

There are three things that men can't do; sell their stuff, sell their stuff cheap, and watch as their stuff is sold cheap.  Now, is there any activity that encompasses all three of those terrors?  Hmmm. Selling a refrigerator for fifty bucks is one thing.  That's helping someone.  Selling the baseball glove I got when I was eight is heresy or treason or some other impeachable offense.

I went to a few garage sales last Saturday.  Sort of the same morbid fascination as when there's a wreck on the other side of the road.  Nothing good left at any of them, but it was 10:00.  Everyone knows all the good stuff is 86'd by 4:15 in the morning.  That's the first un-manly thing about garage sales.  We don't understand why anyone would get up very early to spend money.  Unless it's on bait.  Or green fees.  Besides, if someone does want to buy my old refrigerator, they can come at a reasonable hour.  And He probably would.

     "Hey, buddy, can I come by and look at the Kenmore reefer you got for sale?"

     "Sure, how 'bout Saturday?"

     "Sounds good -- hey, (with a chuckle) see ya around eight?"

     I laugh back.  "Naw, make it six."

     Now we're both hooting and whooping.

     "Well, you could, but that'd be late, all the good stuff will be gone." 

A few weeks before the sale, your wife begins gathering.  Old sport coats, old baseball mitts, AM/FM receivers with one channel blown, along with three tons of clothes.  She does the courtesy of asking you, "Do you still use this?" but she asks during the game, and your response is, of course, "Hrrumph."

 The morning arrives, you get drug out of bed, and grab your flashlight to go and set up.  You pass roosters snoozing, early birds dreaming of opportunities and you start wiping the dew off the tables.  It's time for a garage sale.

"Hey, what’s the deal with my sport coat?"

"You mean that size 36 short thing you haven't worn since the eighth grade?"

"Yeah, my Lucky Sport Coat."  You put the coat on over one arm, get the other arm about halfway across your back, and that's it.

"See, it's a little tight, but (all together now) I'll Get In It Again."

It is un-manly to admit there exists an article of clothing you own that you will never fit in again.  It's a bit snug for your ten year old son; he's husky anyway.  You are "muscular," and you pull the coat off the rack.

"Hey, what is this AM/FM receiver doing here, we can't sell this?"

"One channel is blown."

"Well, (all together now) I Can Fix That."

"Kevin, they don't make the parts for it anymore."

The crowd is milling around in your driveway, pawing through all the mementos of your past while you try to stay one step ahead.  One woman is looking at your old Helmet With Cup Holders and Straws For Two Beers thing. 

"Twelfth century fertility helmet," you tell her.  "Don't let the missus see you looking at it, she don't know I put it out here.  I can let it go for a hundred, but just hurry."

By now, it has become your goal in life to sell all the useless toys and female clothing you have in the house, as long as none of your stuff is touched.

"That's taken already," is a phrase you frequently use.  Then someone brings your 1967 Baseball Annual to you and hands you two quarters.

"What's this?"

"Price sticker says seventy-five cents.  I'll give you fifty."

"Hold on a second."

You go to your wife and ask, "Are you crazy?  Do you know this is a collectable?  How did you get this out of my room?  It's a priceless . . . look at what's in here."  You flip through the pages; they disintegrate in the breeze.

The rest of the morning is pure purgatory, an eternal wait for something to end.

As the peak sales time wans - about 5:15 AM - you sit next to your pile of treasures.  Your wife clears her throat and you look over at her, promptly getting blasted with that look, forcing you to speak.  Stupid.

"What?  Look, a woman buys things to fit a need and then dumps them.  A man buys things for his great-great-great grandchildren to marvel at.  It's just the way it is.”

"OK,” she says, nodding.  “So, Mr. Long John Silver, what are you gonna do with all your booty there?" she asks.

“Find Treasure Island, one…and then buy a shovel.  Think I could get one at a garage sale?”

She's carrying a big bag of paper, and I know she's disappointed in me and she probably didn't make too much money, so I offer to help.

"Here, let me throw that bag of trash away for you."

"Trash?  This is my cash."

"How much?"

"Not too bad.  I didn't sell those old bikes we had, but I’m thinking we made about sixty-eight, maybe sixty-nine. 

“Sixty-nine dollars?  Well that’s not too bad.  Not sure if it’s worth getting up at…”

“No Kevin.  Sixty-nine thousand."

(Cut to next Saturday.  About two AM.  At my garage sale.)

"C'mon, make me an offer.  He's a good dog.  Here, need some shorts, go right in my room, grab a pair.  What about the women and children, how much for the women and . . . "

     For fifty-eight minutes, these Earthlings cut and trim and whack a green leafy substance that grows in a square area in front of their domicile.  Well most of it is green and leafy.  They apparently worship the green and leafy stuff; it takes up all their attention, anyway.  

   They cut and trim and whack at it some more.  Then - and at this point the alien pokes his friend in the ribs and says, "watch this," - the humans put a granular substance all over the leafy area and sprinkle a liquid over that.  To make it grow again!     

     The alien's friends all die laughing.  Grow and then cut.  Grow and then cut. 

     A few hours later, after they've been drinking too much, they jump in their space ships and ride around Earth, sticking their tongues out and laughing.  Sometimes they drink so much they crash, and their friends have to quickly pick them up.      

    "Before," they always say, laughing even harder and squirting beer out of all four noses, "they make us 'cut the grass.'"

     It's probably an old joke or punch line, and I first heard it in the kitchen of a Kentucky Fried Chicken in 19 and 77.  There was a cook who worked for me and he may be the funniest guy I've ever met.  He could read your driver's license and crack all three of us up.  Let's say his name was Robert. 

    Robert was training a new guy and not loving life at all.  I could see the new guy was struggling.  At the end of the night I ask my funny guy, "How'd the newbie do?"

    "Kevin," he said, "this guy couldn't pour piss out of a boot with directions on the side."

     I was dazzled by the descriptive brilliance of that phrase and it's stayed with me ever since.  Sometimes I feel the frustration Robert felt, and sometimes I know I'm the cause of it, you know?  That makes us qualified to look at things from both sides of the dilemma.  And that's what we'll do.