Guy-Stuff Glazeover

I once took my uber-girly friend Denni on a mushroom hunting excursion. For those of you who didn't grow up as country bumpkins, it's where you find mushrooms and shoot 'em.

I'm just kidding. You tromp through the woods until you see this ...

... and then you squeal and pick it and wave it around triumphantly at your hunting companion like, "I found one! In your face!" because it's totally a competition and then while you're doing your victory dance you trip over some mossy log and end up dropping the mushroom and your companion is all, "Ahahahaha, loser."

... Or maybe that's just me.

Anyway, back to the story. It was muddy - like really muddy. And I was glopping around through mudholes like nobody's bidness. But Denni ... she was gingerly skipping her way from dry patch to dry patch, griping the whole way about ruining her shoes. Outdoorsy stuff just isn't her thing. Apparently her last straw was when I blew a snot rocket (if you don't know, you probably don't wanna know). She wrinkled up her nose at me, disgusted.

"You should have been born a boy," she snarked.

It's true, at least in part. That's not the first time someone has said that to me; I think the first was when my future brother-in-law stopped by my parents' house and found me in a treetop. I didn't grow up as a tomboy, exactly, but some of my favorite childhood memories consist of wrestling with my brother Steve (under "stage names" like Big Bald Overalled and Jumpin' Pajama Jesus) and catching frogs from the nearby pond. And still today, I love getting dirty and sweaty. Toilet humor always makes me laugh. And I can spit a loogie further than anyone else I know.

But here's what pisses me off. If my chance of achieving ladylike perfection is gonna be blocked by certain "male-ish" traits, then why can't they at least be the USEFUL ones? You know, like the ones that make you good at working on cars and stuff? Spit and dirt and cussing like a sailor, well, they won't get you very far. A love of tree-climbing doesn't serve adult women in very many capacities. 

When it comes to doing "guy stuff," though, I'm at a loss. When I was in high school, my stepdad made my best friend Betsy and I sit through a lesson on how to change a tire. You know what? I still couldn't change a tire if my life depended on it - and I'm pretty sure Betsy can't either. (Sorry, Baba.) And the umpteen-million times my husband has tried to explain technical stuff to me, like how an engine works, some "ewww guy stuff" part of my brain just glazes over - no matter how interested I am in learning.

It just. Doesn't. Register.

Which is why I don't know what stuff like this does:

       

Or why I was temporarily baffled when Colin asked me for some "two-part epoxy" (really strong glue ... thanks Google) to hold a broken toy together. See? Even at four, he knows more about such things than I do. And not too long ago, Curtis was talking to my friend Jenna, who does have at least some knowledge of auto mechanics and whatnot. They were discussing something "misfiring on the third cylinder" (?) in her car. I was impressed - and okay, I admit it, a wee bit jealous - at Jenna's guy-stuff skillz. (Especially when, a few minutes later, Curtis congratulated me sincerely for resetting the microwave clock all by myself.) 

I'm not a girly-girl by any stretch of the imagination, but I don't know if I really should've been born a boy. I'd be about as manly as that guy on "Little Miss Perfect" who directs the creepy children's pageants.

I've always wondered what it'd be like to have a penis, though ...