Another day, another post. Someone left a comment, notice I'm not naming names here, wanting to see my truck's butt. Who am I to deny the simple pleasures of life to a fellow web surfer?

Now, down to business, which is really the Brit's area of expertize, but I at least try to hold up my end of the blog. Today's topic is men at home. I would guess that means, what it's like to work at home. Of course, in my case it means working at home, around the home, and, far too often, on the home.

To give a brief background on how I arrived at this situation, I'll start near the middle of the story, which is the pertinent part. A few years back, while I was in between jobs, the thought crossed my mind that writing things people can read would be more fun than writing stuff for consumption by computers. Working out the finances, it turned out that after taxes on my part of the family income, and if I did most of the things we paid other people to do so my wife and I could both work, it was a break even deal. So I became ...

Super Bob! At any moment in time I could shift identities and be: Chauffeur Bob, Janitor Bob, Handyman Bob, House Keeper Bob, Chef Bob (the one I'm best at,) Exterminator Bob, Shopper Bob, Lawn Care Bob, Errand Boy Bob, Auto-mechanic Bob, Interior Decorator Bob, and, last but far from least, Pet Care Bob. At least we didn't have a swimming pool. However, even though I had heard from women all my life just how difficult this multiple personality role is, through some joke by the Powers That Be, as it turns out, I'm good at it. I kept a reasonably clean house, a tidy lawn, dropped our food bill by half while improving the quality of our diet considerably, shepherded our son from seventh grade through high school, and still found time to write a big stack of short stories and a novel.

Life was good. Then a sudden death in the family left the farm down the road without a farmer, and the big old plantation house without a caretaker. In an ultra-secret, confidential, closed door meeting of all the important family members, to which my invitation arrived a day late, it was decided by unanimous vote that I would be promoted to farmer, in addition to my other duties.

What was not mentioned up front was that in addition to Farmer Bob, I now had to be Lumberjack Bob, Tractor Mechanic Bob, Tour Guide Bob (the old part of the house is very historic,) Game Warden Bob and Sheriff Bob (people keep sneaking onto our property to hunt and / or go off roading without permission,) and Caterer Bob (now that we have room, we throw some big parties.)

It took a year or four to get the hang of the extra powers, but they're under control now, for the most part. Thus, while I spent a couple of hours before dawn catching up on email and reading some blogs, did the shopping for the weekend meals, scrubbed the bath, kitchen, and living room in anticipation of my son's visit this evening (along with his future wife,) shopped for an elderly friend of the family who is just recovered from a broken hip, stacked some more firewood on the porch, and played care taker and referee to these monsters (and the three cats not shown), I still found time to get this post ready.


So, you can call me Bob, you can call me Farmer Bob, or you can call me Super Bob - the Wise, Lord and Master of My Domain and Domestic Duties and Pets, He Who (after cooking the evening meal, serving, stuffing the dirty dishes in the washer, all the while making small talk to entertain His guests) Shall Drink Heavily and Relax!

the Grit