I Built a BABY didn’t I?

Whenever its occurred to me that I may be in danger of having my official Man Club card taken away, it's usually too late anyway and some serious smoovetalk is needed to keep my membership from being revoked.

Sometimes all it takes is for me to wear my Harley boots around for an extra hour a day, after I've scuffed the polish off ‘em of course, but sometimes I have to partake in the spectating of large sporting events while brandishing a stubbie and shouting nonsensically at the tiny referee people on the television.

It's not the chick flicks or the baking or the sewing and shit that sets things off either, it seems to be a combination of sorts. When I start out the week in an apron and hairnet, making pikelets (little pancakes, I just learned this) as a volunteer at the school canteen, I'm not swinging myself about in the manliest manner, motorcycle boots or no. I realise this.

Compound this with the fact that, when the children's eager faces are filling out their lunch orders from the menu above their heads and most are casting the most curious of glances at me, I'm singing along with the radio and the lovely Pink and something about how "saying goodbye will make her wanna miss me."

LunchLadyDoris sees the children's interest and gives me a wry smile while explaining to me that everything is cool with me and the kids, it's just that they've never seen a man in the canteen before.

"Why, did the other dudes just volunteer off-hours or only stack shelves or somethin'?" I ask innocently.

Her smile widens into a grimace that suggests that laughter is barely being kept at bay. Her eyes soften into an almost mothering stare as she explains, "No Judd, they haven't seen a man in here because there haven't been any other ‘dudes' volunteering in the kitchen before."

I barely shake that one off before I'm shootin' the shit with the girls about our kids and our respective partners and I let out that Wife has crinked her neck again and when I get home I'll be giving her neck and shoulders a rub to aid her against yet another round of heckling and being called "Frank", "Frankie", "Franz" or any derivation of the monster "Frankenstein" which she most resembles when in that state.

The "oohing", pretend swooning, and teasing is only partially allayed by my admission that I'M always the one heckling her and that I find it achingly funny, but bouncing back is never that easy.

I follow that kind of day up with one filled with such testosterone-laden activities as vacuuming and dishes after earning my keep playing with a baby while earning my keep on this here Intraweb. Wife won't let me near the laundry and usually mutters something about stains and how Barbie has enough of a wardrobe already while shooing me away from the machine.

The end of the week is highlighted by a Midwinter's Banquet with the medieval re-enactment troupe that in-law's BatGirl and Doc got us involved in*.

*Geekiliciously Dorktastic or not, I've wanted to be King Codpiece the Skullsplitting Viking Celt of Wales since I was about 7, and I'm sticking to that as the reason that I joined. Making the clothing and armour and shit was only secondary. Seriously. I mean, c'mon. Swordfighting. With Swords. REAL Swords. REALLY hitting each other. Anything with as much bruising as ice hockey can't be that dorky. I don't walk around calling anybody "m'lady" n' shit either, I'm there to split some fuckin' skulls.

The only thing about the banquet is to come in a costume with a Tudor theme. Before I wondered out loud about how we're supposed to dress as those little houses that are built behind big houses, I asked BatGirl what that means. With her usual too much/too little initial shot of information, she mentioned that I can get away with wearing my fighting garb, washed first, but Wife would need a dress.

Turns out, even the peasants could spruce it up a little bit and even though Wife was more interested in being a nun than royalty, her choice of the pious garb was more for the ease of the dress-making for husband and was eventually eschewed in favour of something less likely to sizzle when coming into contact with her skin.

Cutting, basting, pinning, finishing, and facing took all day Friday and most of Saturday. While I constantly pestered her about how to correct my numerous and somewhat horrific mistakes and my children ran about her house like howler monkeys on acid, BatGirl took it all in stride and clothed-up her entire clan too. She was an absolute dream and, once it's finished, I'll show you all the webbin' site that I made ‘er.

Wife looked superbly and awesomely hot and, not to be outdone with two days of bitchery stitchery, I even tried to make a pie for the Baking Competition at the Feast. Regardless of the fact that we got everybody bathed and dressed and ready to go by the time the dinger dinged on the oven, eggs actually ARE imperative in baking that kind of pie. I honestly thought I'd get away with that one. I blame my "Y" chromosome.

Though I thoroughly enjoyed the week, I'm not afraid for my rights to own a penis or anything. I'm still manly. Hell, I'm the NEW type of man, who's so manly that he doesn't even need a WOMAN for so-called woman's work.

How fuckin' tough am I now?

Hah? Want those brakes done? No worries.

Want some French Fuckin' Toast?!? Easy.

New Fridge?!? Stand back woman! I'm BUILDING a new fuckin' fridge!!!

Bread? From the Store?!? I'm MAKIN' some fuckin' bread!!! AND a fuckin' Store!!

Camisole on fuckin' eBay??? I'll CARVE you a fuckin' camisole!!! With my fuckin' buttcheeks!! Finished off with a fuckin' Chuck Norris Roundhouse Kick to the face!!

Soothe the baby to sleep?!? One order of Roundhouse Kicks to the Face comin' UP!! You wanted her to sleep until fuckin' Thursday right?!?

New Prime Minister?!? I'll WELD one out of the steel shavings the battleaxe leaves on the floor when I shave!!! Hell, after I've eaten another fuckin' Knight for breakfast I'll run a magnet over the crapper and WELD a new goddam President from that!! All hail President KnightShit!!

Yeah.

Gotta run, I promised Wife I'd help her sort and fold baby clothes.

Ah Christ. I just thought about that one. I don't suppose it helps that I'm going to my first Flyfishing Club meeting tonight?

See? I'm still a Man's man. That "Man" just happens to be pretty damn tough... and he likes ‘em creative and thenthitive n' shit. And when I wear green cos it brings out my eyes.

About JuddHole

This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.