There's nothing like old friends.

We spent last weekend on the Cape with one of my three go-to friends. There's nothing like the comfort of an old friend. Somebody that truly gets you. There's no need for meaningless small talk. There's no uncomfortable silence. You don't have to figure out if a handshake, fist bump, or hug is the appropriate greeting. No explanation is necessary for your sarcastic tone. You just sit back, relax, and enjoy the moment. You put off leaving, but eventually you hug goodbye, knowing that the next time will be just as glorious in it's simplicity.

But, I had no idea how inspiring this weekend would be for the lil' man's imagination.

Sure, my friend and the lil' man are peas in a pod. There was lots of wild running. More harmonicas than I could count. Drawing. "Sure you can play with my base guitar. Go ahead and break it." More wild running. Both of them woke up with the sun. But, it was the trip to the beach that really got the lil' mans juices flowing.

We gathered the normal beach accessories: chairs, cooler, umbrellas, towels, buckets, and a SPADE. "What? Why are you bringing a spade to the beach? What are you going to do with a spade? A little overkill, don't you think? Dude, you don't need to bring a spade to the beach." "Damn it! The spade is coming." Okay ... So off we went, spade and all.

Immediately upon arrival, he put the spade to use. He dug and dug. Creating a waist high mound of sand that was at least 12 feet in length. We just sat back and watched—because that's what you do with this friend. Sit back, watch, and wonder what this creative madman is up to. Finally, he stepped back and surveyed the mound. He must have approved, because he put the spade down and started sculpting with his hands.

The lil' man became MORE out of control, so we had to leave before the sculpture was finished. I can only imagine that it became some sort of huge dragon, lizard, reptile thing.  We got back to the house and HOLY CRAP! It's the lil' man's supper time, he's starving—no wonder he's out of control. Where did the time go? Sorry lil' man. Daddy was off duty, relaxing, sipping a Nalgene bottle of cape cod. Sorry mommy, I forget that I need to help with the routine stuff while you're on duty. I'll try to do a better, less frustrated job of that.

So ... we're back in Providence. We take our first post Cape trip to the playground. We enter the huge sandbox where the adventure always begins. "Bug. What do you want to make today?" "Mr. Walrus!" Whoa! Usually, it's cupcakes or meat-a-balls. Feeling refreshed and inspired from our weekend in the Cape, I dive into the sandbox and start making Mr. Walrus. The lil' man watches, patiently engaged. After I finish a pretty darn handsome Mr. Walrus, I give the OK to the lil' man and his friends that have gathered. They stomp Mr. Walrus.

Day two, the lil' man requested a lobster. Day three, the lil' man requested a platypus. Yeah, our lil' two year old, not only can say platypus, he actually knows what a platypus is supposed to look like. The platypus was a playground hit and ... ummm ... I think it was a springboard for ... well ... I think I have groupies. That's right JT! I have groupies too. Sure, most of them aren't tall enough to ride a roller coaster. But, that's okay with me—not like I'm trying to bring sexy back. I'm just making shit out of sand.

Today, my lil' friends requested: another lobster, a row boat, and an octopus. I made them all! One lil' girl said, "You're nice!" Another, offered to buy me an ice cream with her only dollar. Awe ... When it was time to leave, I pulled the lil' man away in his wagon. He waived both hands and cheered, "Bye people. Bye friends." They all returned the gesture. It felt like the playground erupted in farewell. Like everyone was running after the lil' man riding in his wagon. I felt like a super star.

Thank you, one of my three go-to friends. Once again, you have inspired me to be better. More importantly, you inspired my boy's imagination.

The dead, but walking zombie.

At 4:30pm, after 9 beautiful hours of adventure and discovery a "piano" falls from the sky and lands on my fucking head. This piano. Oh, this fucking piano ... just getting hit by it once would turn any Baptist into a chain smoking, beer guzzling, dancing fool. One's gotta think that the chances of getting hit with a falling piano must be slim, but it happens to me every fucking day.  All I can do is load the lil' man into his wagon and pull him in circles around the 'hood until my solo shift ends at 5:30.

During the zombie walk this evening, one thing consumed my mind. I didn't take the lil' man past all his favorite landmarks: Liam's house, the purple octagon house, the Fertile Underground, Enza's house, or the orange Honda Element and all the memorized driveways that contain a Mini Cooper. I did not repeat every word he spoke. I didn't even look into the sky as he joyously screamed, "Airplane." All I could do, was think about this blog.

I've only written one post in the past two weeks. Why is this? Before, I was writing at least one a day. Has there been nothing to write about? Nope, thing's have been PRETTY eventful. Is it because the lil' man broke my MacBook? Nope, that just happened a few days ago. Have I lost interest in writing? Nope. Well, what is it then?

After walking around in circles for an hour, I finally came to the conclusion that my recent lack of story-based reflection/release is due to the picnic being over. A month has passed. We've settled into our new life. A life that is really exhausting for me. The fumes that were affording me the energy to write have dissipated. I'm toast. I need a beer. Make that another. Hold on....

I didn't think I was going to be writing tonight. In fact, I was planning to use any energy I could muster to search the classifieds for employment. But just before bed, unsolicited, the lil' man gave me what I need everyday, preferably at 4:30. "Huge huggies!" He even threw in a kiss on the lips for good measure. Oh, that charming lil' bugger hooked me for at least one more day.

What a dud!

I've been waiting ... and waiting ... and waiting for the perfect nipple story to emerge.

This is how the story began. One day I was getting undressed to take a shower. Wait, that is a lie. I no longer have the luxury of taking showers. I must of been exchanging the shirt I had been wearing for three days for a fresh one. Anyway ...

lil' man: "Daddy has hairy armpits."
me: "Yep. Daddy has hairy armpits."
lil' man: "See 'em."
me: "Here they are, buddy."
lil' man: "Touch 'em."
me: I bent down and let him touch them.
lil' man: "Kiss 'em."
me: "You don't want to kiss my stinky armpits."
lil' man: "No." He thinks about what to talk about next. "That?"
me: "That is my nipple. This is my right nipple. This is my left nipple."
lil' man: "See 'em"
me: "Yep. You're seeing them."
lil' man: "Touch 'em."
me: "Sure buddy, you can touch them." I bent down so he could touch my nipples.
lil' man: "Kiss 'em."
me: "Nah buddy, you can't kiss my nipples. That's just weird."

For three weeks, nipples were the topic of conversation during snack time with Bob Shetterly. The lil' man asked Bob Shetterly all about nipples. To my disappointment, the lil' man only seemed interested in talking about nipples with me and Bob Shetterly. For three weeks, I've been patiently waiting for a kick-ass nipple story. I thought about making one up, but that just didn't seem to go with the blogs theme of honesty.

This is the story I imagined.

The lil' man and I are checking out at Wholefoods. An incredibly hot woman is working the till. I can only imagine that she's working the till to put her hot self through Brown. She is voluptuous!

hot cashier: "He is SO adorable. Look at those big blue eyes."
lil' man: The lil' man smiles and unexpectedly asks, "Have nipples?"
hot cashier: Unfazed. "Why yes, I have nipples." She looks at me.  "He's smart. How old is he?"
me: "Just turned two."
lil' man: Get's frustrated that the adults are conversing. "See 'em."
me: My inner self, so very badly, wants to give the lil' man a high five.
hot cashier: Without hesitation. She lifts her shirt and shows her glorious nipples.
lil' man: "Kiss 'em."
hot cashier: Silence. Apparently she too thinks that would be weird.

Unfortunately, this is the dud of a story I'm forced to share.

Last night we went to the farmers' market in our park. It's always an over stimulating blast for the lil' man. Every week they set up a stage for live music. Now, I know what you're thinking. Live music at a farmers' market, must be bluegrass. Nope, not at our farmers' market. It's always some form of hip-hop and it's AMAZING.

Also, last night the Children's Museum had a nice little learning/play area setup. An area roped off with hunter orange flagger's tape that contained lots and lots of foam building blocks and noodle things. All the big kids were building their masterpieces. The lil' man wanted to join in. I was actually enjoying a conversation with an adult, so mommy followed him in.

A few minutes passed. I looked over and saw that the lil' man was done. Done tackling all the kids masterpieces and done for the day. I headed over, but didn't get there in time. He was running threw the flagger's tape fence like he was finishing a marathon. It stretched and stretched and finally gave away. But he didn't stop. My lil' man turned into Forrest Gump. He just kept running. I asked the wife to get the stroller and the lil' man and I ran through the park towards "daddy's house."

We were nearly through the park, suddenly he stopped in front of a bench. A jacked Asian dude was sitting there, shirtless, covered in tattoos, drinking a 40 out of a brown paper sack. He and the lil' man just stared at each other. Finally the lil' man broke the silence and uttered, "Nipples." The jacked Asian dude continued to stare at him, the stare got a little serious and kinda weird. Oh shit! Is daddy gonna get his ass kicked over the word nipples? Finally, the jacked Asian dude gave the lil' man a reassuring smile. Which set the lil' man off "runnin'" again.

I thought to myself, this is what I get for my patience? I wanted a hot cashier! Instead, I got a jacked Asian dude sitting on a park bench drinking a 40 out of a brown paper sack? Oh well, I guess I'll just have to wait for a kick-ass vagina story. Vagina, by the way, was taught to him by his grandmother, not me. She didn't think va-jay-jay was sufficient.

Oh vagina story, when WILL you emerge ...

Momentary lapse of insecurity.

After the lil' man went to bed last night, the wifey and I hit the patio for a much needed beer and conversation. I took my chair and said, "I don't think I'm doing a good job. I just don't think I'm cut out for being a stay-at-home dad. I just can't do this." She was caught off guard. Like most people that know me, she thinks of me as being a very secure, proactive, confident person. I mean, I'm the guy that didn't know anything but about electricity, we bought an 1850's farmhouse that needed to be rewired, we didn't have any money to pay an electrician to do a shitty job, so I did it myself without thinking twice. Sure, I had my fair share of zaps, but I'd venture to guess that Thomas Edison had his share back in the day.

So, what is the source of this sudden feeling of insecurity? Is it the exhaustion? The confounding and tireless challenge of raising a lil' wild man? The relentless worry of doing something wrong? The old saying, "mommy knows best" ringing in my ear as I interact with stay-at-home moms and their children? Do THEY know something I don't? THEY seem so put together and natural. Are THEY? Is it just the difficulty of this thankless job? What is it!!!?

For the first time in my life, I feel alone. I feel vulnerable. I feel like I'm getting my ass kicked. And I don't like it.

The stun wore off and the wifey said exactly what I needed to hear. "You're doing a great job. You're a great daddy. You're doing a better job than 99% of ALL parents. I know I couldn't do it and I don't know how you do it. You know what he needs, when he needs it. You fill up everyday in it's entirety with things to do. Thank you for being a stay-at-home daddy to our lil' man. I'm sorry I don't communicate this more often, but I'm just not used to you needing affirmation."

Thanks wifey!!! I'm feeling like myself again. In fact, this afternoon I'm going to take apart the Tiguan, just to put it back together.

The hangover.

I drank my fair share of whiskey when I was younger. Nothing like waking up the next day, I'm sure I don't need to provide a detailed description of what this sort of hangover feels like. It's awful. You want to die. You swear that you'll never drink another drop of whiskey. You pull yourself up and hydrate. Eat some bacon. Take a shower. Eat some more bacon. Drink a Diet Coke. If you still feel ill, you contemplate a self inflicted purge. Finally, you start to feel alive again.

After mommy corralled the lil' monster in his crib last night. We ate skirt steak, drank a couple of beers, and enjoyed some nice adult conversation. A good night sleep and our little world will be right again.

Wrong. Instead, I woke up with an incredibly severe stay-at-home parent hangover. I didn't want to get out of bed. I didn't want to see, talk, or listen to anyone. I just wanted to be alone with my miserably fowl bastard self. Unlike the whiskey hangover, there is nothing you can do for yourself to feel better. The only remedy is for a family member or close friend to scoop your lil' monster up and take 'em away. Leaving you alone to heal.

When we moved to Providence, we knew that giving up this exact help was the greatest sacrifice we made. Our closest, close friends are 120 miles away. Our closest family, well, family that has actually been involved with our lil' man thus far, are 300 miles away.

I'm screwed! I don't have the luxury of options anymore. I get out of bed and try to put together a normal, fulfilling day. I move a little slower than normal, we arrive at the playground 15 minutes later than usual. The Montessori school kids that the lil' man always plays with are already there. Fortunately, the teacher is always happy to have the lil' man participate in whatever they're doing. I think it's because he sets a good example with his ability to share. I sit down and watch.

Then it happens. The ONLY remedy to this stay-at-home hangover appears out of thin air. I caught a glimpse of he lil' man's cousin, the only connection we have in Providence. "No it couldn't possibly be. I've never seen them at this park. It must be a hangover induced hallucination." But it was them. Oh thank GOD!

They played and played. I could see it in the lil' man's face, his spirit was lifted. He was himself again. And after some peaceful venting with the cousin's mom, once again, I felt ready to be a kick ass stay-at-home dad.

Family. Don't take it for granted. And for fuck's sake, don't move away from it when you need it the most.

End of the day ass-whoopin' for the layperson.

You're 3 weeks into your new job. Well, sort of. One year ago, you left this job because you found the challenge too exhausting. But life is more simple now. You have less going on and feel like you're up for the challenge. So you went back.

It's 5:00 pm on Tuesday, thirty minutes before your workday ends. You're exhausted from what you felt was an extremely productive day. You really nailed it today. You spent the entire day busting your ass to please your boss. The door to your office opens and your boss enters. You're completely caught off guard as he blows up. He screams. He cries. He won't listen to what you have to say. The worst part is that his belligerent outburst doesn't give you the slightest clue as to where you went wrong.

Twenty minutes later, you find yourself hiding in your bedroom. Just lying on your bed trying to make sense of it all. You're starting to unwind. You get up and hop into the shower. Something you haven't had time to do in three days, because you've been working so fucking hard. You're starting to feel relaxed, so you head down to the kitchen for a glass of wine.

Your boss is there waiting for you. I guess you were so frazzled by his behavior that you had forgotten that he lives with you. You spend 24 hours a day with your boss. Most of the time is good, but you never have a break from each other. He pretends that nothing happened. He doesn't apologize. He doesn't communicate what's wrong. He doesn't hug you goodnight. In fact, he just heads to bed. Once again, you ponder.

All you can think about is quitting. After writing a blog post, you start to feel better about the day. The majority of which, was pretty darn amazing.

The good homemaker.

I think (that's the key word, THINK) that I'm doing a darn good job raising our lil' man. I'm sure, like most stay at home parents, I have my good moments and not-so-good moments. How can you not? It's like riding a roller coaster. You go up. You go down. And you can't get off until the ride is over. Sometimes you want to puke. Sometimes you want to scream. And most times you want to weep ... tears of joy, tears of sorrow, or tears of frustration. Ahh, perhaps the weeping is due to my low T. Unfortunately, unlike a roller coaster, it doesn't appear the parental ride ends. Shit. I just turned 37. I still lean on my mommy.

Last night the wifey reassured me that it's normal for people in my circumstance to sometimes think, possibly utter, "Jesus fucking Christ! I just don't want to be around my child today." I'm not sure if she was being honest, or just trying to make me feel better. I guess it doesn't really matter, I know that I'm being honest

Maybe I'm just taking this roll too seriously. I'm mean, shit, I'm blogging about it.

Actually, I'm taking this very fucking seriously. I've jumped in with both balls. I'm not a say-at-home dad! I'm a fucking homemaker, and proud of it. Wait. I'm a competitive dude.  I'm not just a homemaker. I'm trying to be the best fucking homemaker this planet has ever seen. I pay the bills. I grocery shop. I clean. I make sure the wifey has breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I mow the lawn. I walk the dog and pick up her doo. I fix the plumbing. I do everything but bring home a paycheck. AND it brings me joyous fulfillment. I know there are still a lot of people in our society that would question this fulfillment of manhood. Screw them idiots! Bring 'em to me, so I can slap 'em upside the head with my ding-dong in an attempt to inspire a progressive thought.

Can you say, "tangent"?

It's Monday... It's been a very long time since I've had normal employment, but I've heard that Monday's tend to suck. So, tonight I planned a delicious and romantic treat for the wifey. Grilled sea bass with an arugula salad with a balsamic vinaigrette (containing scrumptious bacon drippings), grilled onion, and fruit tree smoked bacon. Oh yeah. This will make her Monday better.

Hmmmm.....

My apologies for the sloppy plating, by this time our little monster was aiming the sprinkler at our 27$/lb sea bass.

I don't have to go to the YMCA.

The YMCA comes to us! Well, actually it comes to the park that we go to every morning.

For the bulk of my childhood I was a Y kid, so I was delighted on Tuesday when Y on the move showed up at the park. I thought to myself, "How cool is this?" A traveling YMCA! "You come every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday?" Nice!

I sit back and watch as the Y staff spends time with my lil' man. Even though he doesn't grasp playing catch, jumping rope, kickball, frisbee, etc.. They go out of their way to involve him in everything they do. They already know his name and give him a boat load of one-on-one time. He has no qualms with soaking up the attention.

Today was the third day of Y on the move at the park. And the third time I've had an annoying interaction with a stay-at-home mom. These interaction go something like this:

Stay-at-home mom stands on the sideline, grasping her child, protecting them from interaction.

mom: Is your boy part of this group?
me: Uh. It's the YMCA on the move program. Everyone can participate. They're here every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. Isn't that awesome?
mom: Well. Did you know about such and such (today it was a playgroup co-op) that you can take your boy to?
me: I just moved here, so I didn't know about _ _ _ _ _ _ _. Thanks for telling me about _ _ _ _ _ _ _, I'll look into it. Have a nice day.

The stay-at-home mom, perplexed, walks away with her child not having participated in Y on the move.

Internally, my mind goes ape shit. Maybe the stay-at-home mom just hates sports. Perhaps, she doesn't want her child interacting with the "free lunch" kids. Is the YMCA a class signifier? Does this mom really think her child is going to experience diversity by looking at it from the sideline? Is everyone welcome at your little co-op?

All this fades out of my mind, as I watch my lil' man enjoy life.

For Christ's sake. Don't forget your cheese grater.

My folks are visiting this weekend and we are stoked. Stoked to have our first visitors. Stoked to spend time with them. Stoked to show 'em our new digs, our hood, the zoo, the playground, the Fertile Underground ... basically, to share our new life. We're stoked that we'll finally have a chance to enjoy a 200$ meal at one of the neighborhood eateries. Yeah. I know. Why don't we just take the lil' man out to eat with us? Well, because we don't want to just eat—we want to enjoy every last bite. We're stoked to have a little help and whatever break that may entail. But we are really stoked that we're getting our fucking cheese grater back.

We were reluctant to move into a furnished home. But, the 'hood felt right. The people felt right. The yard felt right. Quite frankly, it was the only place we looked at that felt like home. How bad could living with objects belonging to someone else be?

Knowing we were moving into an already full house, we purged our home in Maine. We donated all the duplicate, unnecessary, and useless objects to the thrift store. A process that delighted me, but stressed out the wifey. Some people have an easier time answering the question, "What can/can't I live with out?" I won't lie, it was an intense, mystifying purge.  I consider myself a fairly minimal and thoughtful purchaser of goods, so this purge troubled me. How did we acquire all of this shit? Why did we acquire all of this shit? Where did all of this shit come from? Who did it come from? Am I more American than I think?

We rented the smallest UHaul truck and packed it (sort of) full of essentials: art, crib, computer, bed, clothing, cookbooks, gourmet pantry items, toddler necessities, our favorite kitchen gadgets, Le Creuset cookware, Wustof knives, and our tooth brushes. I felt light. I felt free. I felt glorious. We have only what we need. Nothing more. Nothing less. I believe that I reached my own personal nirvana.

And it's a good thing that we purged and brought very little with us. We tried to unpack ... This house was SO FULL OF SHIT that there wasn't room for our tooth brushes. After packing up and cleaning our house, we spent two days packing up and cleaning this house. It sucked! It really irritated me. How could these fucking people ..... I composed myself and we made room for our things.

Needless to say, there wasn't much time for cooking dinner those first two nights. But on the third night, oh yes, it was time. Feeling inspired by our surroundings, I decided that Mexican cuisine was the obvious choice. I picked up some fresh ingredients from a produce vendor a block away. Went home and started prepping. I coated the boneless thighs just as Rick Bayless would. I made some guacamole topped with thinly sliced radishes. Now I just need a cheese grater for the cabbage and cheese. I started looking. Hmmmm. Can't seem to find one. My casual look turned into a monstrous romp through the cupboards. How the fuck can someone have an 800$ espresso machine, three complete sets of dishes, a six burner stove, 4 sets of glassware, silverware falling out of the drawers, a ridiculous selection of kitchen gadgets NOT HAVE A FUCKING CHEESE GRATER? This is ridiculous! I composed myself and finished making dinner.

So, for three weeks we've been living without a cheese grater. It's been a dramatized hell. You might ask, "Why didn't you just buy shredded cheese?" My answer is, because it sucks. Also, the grater is more utilitarian in our household. "Well, why didn't you just buy another cheese grater?" Because we just purged our life and there's no fucking way I'm gonna complicate it with a second cheese grater.

"People daddy. People!"

Yep. You guessed it. We went to the playground this morning.

The lil' man is quickly becoming the favorite whitest white boy at the playground. He comes equipped with lots of toys. And he shares. He doesn't care what gender you are, what color you are, what language you speak, what your religion is, how old you are, or how much $$$ your parents earn. He simply wants to play. In his words all these people are "PEOPLE!" Surely this is common behavior for a two year old. Or is it? Either way, it makes me one proud daddy.

Most of the other kids seem perplexed at the lil' mans willingness to share. "Really? I can play with this? With you?" They glance over at me, obviously his daddy, for a reassuring nod. This crushes me. Makes me want to sob. I smile and say, "Of course you can play with it."

If the lil' man only retains one thing that I teach him, I hope it is that people are people.

Testing my Mainehood.

The food selection where we moved from in Maine had decreased our expectations and appetite. Who hasn't fucking heard of hanger steak? Apparently, everyone who sells food in the greater Bangor area. We were starving for good food when we arrived in Providence. And we found it. Yes. Yes. There are not one, but two Whole Foods in town. But to be honest, we haven't even set foot in either of them since our arrival. It's just not necessary. Food is everywhere. And it is good. And good food means lots and lots of grilling.

In fact, we've grilled every night for three weeks. Most of the time it's glorious, but if daddy doesn't have his shit together ... we be eating at 10pm. A little late for weeknight chow. So late, that we haven't had the energy to watch the final two episodes of Mad Men. That's just fucked up.

A few months ago, while visiting our favorite people. I noticed they had made the switch to gas—surely I made fun of those lazy sissies. Well, last night we too decided it was time to switch to gas. Why not? Nothing wrong with testing a bit of my Mainehood so we can eat at a reasonable hour. How was I to know that it would test my Mainehood more than just a little?

I worked at an old hardware store for years. That old hardware store is where I met my wife and is also the reason that the lil' man is named what he's named. This is why a piece of me died today when I had to go to a store which shall not be named. I fucking hate those stores! There are so many reasons ... Ughh. This is not where this is supposed to go.

I was at a big fucking store buying a grill. So many choices and nobody that fucking knows anything about them. I'm usually pretty decisive, but these stores get me all wound up. I called the wifey at work.

me: Hi honey. What do you think? Infrared or regular?
wifey: I dunno. What's the difference?
me: The infrared is the latest thing. I think most restaurants use infrared grills now.
wifey: Well, get that one then.
me: Ok. Two burner or three?
wifey: I don't know. Get the bigger one.
me: Shhwing!

How many wifey's say, "Get the more expensive, bigger grill?" I got it, but there was no way it was fitting into the Tiguan. No problem.  I'm from Maine. I shouldn't be buying assembled shit anyway. Besides, it will give the lil' man and I something to do this afternoon—it will be fun.

me: You sell these in a box?
idiot: Yep.
me: How long do they take to assemble?
idiot: Ummm. Like 20 minutes.
me: I'll take one in the box.

He brings the box to the counter.

me: Damn. How much does that thing weigh?
idiot: Ummm. It says 140lbs on the side of the box.

I bust a nut hoisting the box into the car. The hatch won't close. No problem. I've tied down a hatch or two in Maine. I search the hatch for something to secure a rope to. Nothing. What the fuck? Who designed this vehicle? Didn't they think of this? Seriously, I have to settle for the rear wiper? Yep. I'm now that yuppie asshole who secures his hatch by tying a rope to the rear wiper. "Hope it doesn't rip off."

My drive home is through the hood. And I mean the hood. It's not a long drive, but it ain't pretty. The whole time, all I can think about is that full propane tank sitting in the seat next to my lil' man. What the fuck am I doing? Why didn't I just pay the 20$ to have them deliver an assembled grill? Oh, that's right. I'm from Maine.

We make it home at 4pm. Shit. We've got at least an hour before mommy gets home. No problem. I'm from Maine. I bust the other nut lifting the 140lb box out of the car. What is wrong with me? Three weeks ago I'd have put this thing on my shoulder. It was all I could do to roll this huge square box into the backyard. Phew! Made it.

Out of nowhere, a thunderstorm strikes. The sky opens. It pours.

That's okay. I'm from Maine. I can build shit in the rain. The lil' man and I unpack the boxes and start building. Step 4 requires 2 people. No problem. I'm from Maine. I'm more than two average people. The instructions get wet and I can't read them. No problem. I'm from Maine. I can figure this shit out. I complete the test at 6:30 and contemplate what the fuck is wrong with Mainers.

Now it's time to test the Rhode Islanders. Will the grill still be in our backyard when we wake up tomorrow?