The wife and I just purchased our first home. The dog is doing his best to add his name to the deed, lack of credit and social security number serve as no deterrent to the black Labrador Retriever. He inspects everything that comes into the house with great care and a furious fervor that matches that of a detective on the crime scene. I record a podcast, as they’ll let anyone do that sort of thing (Apple really ought to vet their users more because if my wife and I are allowed to record a podcast, then the world may be in trouble), and the wife and I have reached an agreement on the use of the fourth bedroom in the house; it shall be utilized as The Suite B Studios—home of The Greatest Show on Dirt Baseball Podcast. I hit record on my Macintosh and talk about baseball, players, teams, guys charging the mound, and sliding into second base hard. I call in my brother, and other friends, and often my wife gets on there and hogs the show. She is funnier than me and that is a heated point of contention. As the muscular biceps is a point of identification for some, being funny is a point of identification for me. As it stands, my arms are small.

Let’s pull this exploding Pinto back on the highway. I ordered two leather chairs for the podcast studio, and the lab, who shall be referred to as Brody going forward, worked quickly, adeptly, and quite arduously in his inaugural house inspection: processing the quality and sturdiness of the chairs. Quickly assessing the situation upon my own inspection of Brody’s nose movement and the concern across his face that truly displayed with each rigorous tail wag, I could tell he was skeptical of the online purchase of furniture. He was on my lap while I was on the Macintosh ordering from Overstock.com, and at the time he kept sticking his nose in my hands. He could smell the beef jerky on my mitts, I’m sure, but I’d say the main reason was an early jump on his appraisal procedures. He is a keen fabric inspector. The first thing he did was lick the fabric; a brisk lick, on the seat of the chair, with one of his ears turned inside out. That always happens when he is in the throes of the wild, and fabric must give him the same itch of that when a squirrel is in his eyesight. He walked to the back and stuck out a fast tongue on the rear of the chair, allowing him to taste the leather and steel simultaneously. He looked up at the wall, gave it a lick, to cleanse the palate, one can assume, and went back at the chair. He sniffed some more, you could see his snout flex, inflate, and then release his fieldwork in one large huff, similar to the sound a horse makes.  He took note of the welds, the placement of screws and lock washers on the steel legs, and rubbed his nose across the leather, took a final lick, and pushed the chair with his snout. Organization is key. Finished product goes here, current projects there. He’s proved invaluable. We just bought a TV that is sized 65 inches and he licked it pronto, well before its wall security. Good to know he does televisions, too.

I have begun house projects of my own, as a man needs to learn the ways of his own dwelling to live soundly. A matter arose when the wife said, “those lights above the island, you’ve seen them, you know what I’m talking about, I’ve told you a thousand times we need to replace them.” The moment called to me like Steven Tyler heading Aerosmith singing Dream On, and I knew this was my defining moment to rub my nose on and lick the house and become one with the place. I do realize that electricity might not be the way, like maybe I should change a lightbulb first, but with great power comes great responsibility … and maybe electrocution, but I knew I had to face the idea of burning my home down to the foundation in an effort to live life on my own.

I grabbed the Philips and flat-headed screwdriver, leaped onto the granite topped kitchen island, and started the task at hand. Two bolts loosened by hand, and two Philips released the fixture. I freed the wires and repeated the process for the second light. I did not electrocute myself. I was nervous about getting a jolt, so I called my dad.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Dad greeted me by telephone.

“How much would I be shocked if I get into a hot wire?”

“Well, if you shut the switch off and the house is wired correctly, you won’t”

“Let’s say it’s not wired right.”

“Shut the fuse off.”

“What would happen if I touched a live electrical wire?”

“Well, it’d get ya pretty good.”

“How good?”

“You might piss yourself and forget who ya are for half-hour or so.”

“Will I be able to let go?”

“I hope so.”

My wife asked me about life insurance and said she couldn’t catch me if I fell stiffly to the ground. I bolted the new lights up, screwed two new Edison style light bulbs in, grabbed the fire extinguisher under the sink, and hit the switch.

The house is still standing as of 7:30 am this morning.

Got into some yard work the other weekend. I was rather excited at the prospect of tending my own land. Getting some dirt under the fingernails and taking ownership of the land that stands before me. Upon assessment of the acreage, it was determined that the builders did a shitty job on the entire yard. You see, they used pine needles in the place of mulch, and that stuff attracts Copperheads, and the Copperhead bites more people than any other snake in the United Snakes. They are a venomous snake, and I’d rather not have them loitering in my front yard. Also, I don’t have health insurance, and the wife is adamant about not sucking any poison from my lifeless body. So, with her assistance, and Brody’s watchful eye, we pulled up about 50 pounds of pine needles, illegally dumped them in the construction worker’s dumpster, and got to planting some flowers. Gave home to approximately 20 of them, digging slowly and carefully into the South Carolina clay, careful to shape out the proper depth and width. I had no idea what I was doing, which seems to be a trend in my run as a homeowner, so I’d dig and jam and shove until the plant looked like it belonged. Just like I shoved the wires into the ceiling! Really had to stab at the clay to get it to give, sort of like Christian Bale with an axe in American Psycho. A neighbor walked by and said “nice yard.” I tipped my hat and said “ma’am, thank ya.” You find yourself talking a little different and walking a little different when you do things like I am doing. There’s an old guy, say about 65, that lives at the corner of my street. I always walk by his property in the morning, when Brody and I are going for our morning run. I’ll stop, and we’ll talk about the weather and the grass.

“How ya doing?”

“Good. You?”

“Damn good weather. Can’t complain”

“Grass looks good.”

“Thank ya.”

“Gotta water the plants early.”

“Yep.”

“We’ll see ya.”

“Yep.”

A summit of yardmen. Every morning.

He stands in his yard every morning. Just looking around the land, inspecting, checking, thinking and tinkering. I’ve taken to the same routine, learning from the elder yardmen. I step into my own yard in the morning, with no shirt mind you, and take note of the land after the long night. I inspect the blooms of each plant, the condition of the mulch, any footprints in the yard, the siding of the house, the roof, the sidewalk, the trees, the rolled-up water hose, the grass, the fire hydrant, the front door, and the windows. It’s important to do a task like this with no shirt on. Shows capability, know how, and lets the neighbors know of your handiness. If you see a guy in a front yard with no shirt, you gather the impression that he is good at house things. Never go outside to inspect the house with a shirt on. That’s a no-go. Plus, no shirt shows the farmer’s tan that you got the previous weekend doing yard work, and that let’s others know that your house was built, not bought.