A Failed Attempt at Manliness
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My Father is a cabinetmaker by trade. He is, was, and will always be very skilled with his hands, be it working with wood, mechanics or otherwise.
His dad spent 30 years as a Hi-Lo driver for ACDelco. He came home from work every day with clothes soaked in sweat and propane fumes. My dad inherited his manhood from my grandfather.
I know how to write funny shit and post it on the internet.
Source: myconfinedspace.com
Even though I’ve worked in the auto repair business for the last 10 years, I am up there with your average accountant when it comes to the ability to solve problems mechanically. I’ve always had the resource of skilled technicians who were usually willing to work for beer, so it’s been rare for me to ever have to get my hands dirty myself and I tend to avoid doing so at all costs.
Last weekend I broke out the lawn mower for the first time this season. After changing the air filter and adding some gas, it fired up just fine and I mowed the lawn without incident.
This weekend I went outside to repeat the task, which is typical of my summer Sunday routine. I primed the throttle and pulled the starting handle.
The motor fired up as expected. Satisfied, I began to mow. Then five seconds later, it goes cough, cough, bog down like it’s in really heavy wet grass, cough some more, stall.
I pulled the starting rope several times, but I was unable to get it to fire up again.
‘Maybe I didn’t prime it enough’, I thought.
So I primed the throttle like 10 times more. I got the same result as before.
I decided that the motor was starved for fuel. I figured that the gas that sat in the tank over the winter probably went bad and might have left deposits in the throttle from the last time I mowed. I examined the throttle on the lawn mower’s 4.5 horsepower engine.
‘A few bolts here, a few more there… this doesn’t look too difficult’, I thought to myself. I momentarily thought about taking it the lawn mower repair shop that is located about 1/2 mile from the house. No, I can handle this.
So I cleared a space on the workbench in the garage and started taking the engine apart.
I got it apart easily enough and everything was going as planned. This is man’s work, I thought to myself as I contemplated getting a beer while performing such a masculine task.
I went to the local auto parts shop to get some carb cleaner. I decided not to wash my hands so I would look more manly walking into AutoZone – but the only thing I accomplished is the fact that now the steering wheel in my Buick is greased up like a stripper’s pole as a result (I did get a few technical questions from a customer in AZ, which I answered with expertise). I got home and proceeded to clean the parts as I intended to. I went inside to retrieve some paper towels. Angie was in the kitchen doing dishes when I went into the house.
“Damn you stink – what is that?” She asked with a wrinkled nose and an unimpressed tone.
“Carb cleaner, baby. Now get me some paper towels – I’m doing man’s work out in the garage.”
Unwilling to indulge my pseudo-chauvinism, she threw the roll of paper towels at me sarcastically and went about her business. Not discouraged, I went back out to the garage.
Fast forward thirty minutes.
Angie was still in the kitchen, this time mopping the floors.
“So, did you get it fixed?” She asked with an inquisitive, almost mocking tone.
“No. I ran into a problem.”
“Oh no. What’s wrong?” Her demeanor would indicate that she expected this all along. This must be what Tim The Toolman Taylor’s wife Jill felt like on a daily basis.
I went on to explain to her that after cleaning all of the parts as I had envisioned, I encountered an unexpected snag. I forgot how it went back together. I got most of the parts back in their original places, but there are a few things that I just couldn’t get to fit right.
In an attempt to salvage some dignity, I went on the internet with the model number to try to find a diagram on how to put this thing back together correctly.
I found nothing. Information Superhighway my ass.
So here I am, with an overgrown lawn and a partially disassembled lawn mower that I am going to have to drag to the shop on Monday morning to save my ass. The funny thing is, I used to mock the people who’d come into the shop with self-attempted repairs after they’d realized they’d bitten off more than they could chew. But those were cars. This was a fucking lawn mower. They teach small engine repair in junior high for Christ’s sake.
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Ladies, have a story of manliness or lack thereof? Send me an email or leave a comment, I’d love to hear from you.
Men, comment on the story and tell me how I belong of the cast of Desperate Housewives or share your own tale of shame and degradation of how a simple opportunity to show your blue-collar manliness went way, way wrong.
