(picture from www.aboutflippinghouses.com) 

We bought a house to fix and rent out and things have been, shall we say…mmm…OW?  That conveys all you need to know in one word.  Ow.  We’ve been busy and I only have time for some notes, so…

Rehabbing a house is a great, great, marriage enrichment exercise. If I may be so blunt...if we'd done this after only a few years of marriage, the police would be talking about murder suicide, let me tell you. Now, on a key night, one of us finally said to the other, "I'm only being a pain in the patootie so you will suspend me without pay for four days."  The other one of us said nothing in reply. 

Know that saying, “…from head to toe?”  Well, sir/ma’am, I’ve discovered new horizons, claimed new land.  How about I am sore from the end of my longest hair to the tip of my big toenail?  When I cramp up, it’s not from working outside or ripping out baseboards; it’s not even from lifting boxes of tile, sheets of cement board, or from holding a circular saw for an hour.  No, my body cramps up from laughter when it sees what I plan on doing each day – continually pushing it where this man has not gone in a long, long time.  Did I tell you I am sore?

If your extremely talented and handy (mechanical, electrical, plumbing, drywall, nuclear physics, et al) neighbor fries himself installing an electrical outlet, reckon that’s covered on homeowner’s insurance?  Speaking hypothetically, of course.  If he does it in front of the kids looking to rent the place, just as we’re telling them how great the neighbor’s been in ALL the stuff he’s done, does that raise the deductable or anything?  Just…curious.

If God had wanted us all to be plumbers, he’d have given us the ability to – with a straight face - charge someone $118 for nine seconds of work.  I swear, plumber guy is going to be standing by the new commode one day and say, “So, I’m gonna check out the flotilla conjunction junction now.”  We’ll blink and he’ll say, “Want me to do it again?  It’ll be another $59.”

You should see how awesome the sod in the backyard is going to turn out.  Me and my son laid sod in August in 106 degree heat and it’s going to look like…well, I only have three words, as David Alan Grier used to say; fab-u-lous.  The Old Man and the Seed; the grizzled old-timer, baking in the warmth, passing on great knowledge to his only son.  And down at the Lewisville water department, they are stone drunk and celebrating because some Phillips guy just spent 1.7 million dollars on his water bill.  Last week.

Have I mentioned how sore….yeah, I think I did.

How come directions for anything are five sentences in Finnish, Flemish and Frankish but in English it says: “Tighten screw with square side up.”  And both sides are square.  Why?  Why?  Oh, why?

Figure this entry is PG-13, okay? 

We bought a little house to fix up and rent out and that’s where I’ve been the last month. You learn much doing the work yourself; mostly you learn your threshold for pain and soreness. The other night I turned this way and the missus turned that way carrying a 2 x4 and “it” happened.

In sports, it’s called a cup check.  Additionally it’s known as getting your bell rung, hitting below the belt, and fenced (tell you about that in a moment); see your favorite Austin Power’s movie for a list of others. No guy can relate all the details of the last time he was bent over from the Force, but he can sho’ nuff tell you about seeing it happen to someone else.  In great detail.

When I was ten, I chased Jerry into his backyard.  Jerry was a chubby kid; great guy, played sports with us, he was just chunky.  As we closed in on the cyclone fence, he made a movie-style leap.  It really was impressive and one could almost hear the 60’s action-flick music playing in the background.  At least half way up it was impressive; then the tune changed.

As he reached the apex of his jump, his right foot (clad in a too-old and slick tennis shoe) slipped on the top bar and so began the commodities meeting.  Aluminum…say hello to the family jewels.  Jerry got fenced.  Hit the bar, hit the ground and didn’t move.

Did I go see if he was okay?  I was ten - means I was rolling on the ground laughing like a hyena. He suffered no ill will that we could see, but then again, what ill will can a ten-year-old suffer?  It’s only a couple years later when the possibility of permanent damage comes into play that you get some smarts.

First time I played dodge ball in high school I had enough sense to run in front of the littlest guy on the other team and get knocked out. Quickly.  When the other team includes a fifteen year old who is seven feet tall, it’s best to be on the sidelines, far, far away from the action.  They say a combat soldier hears the bullet meant for his helmet long before he sees it.  Same application here, only ninth graders don’t aim for your noggin.  They aim further south.

If your memory thankfully fails you in regard to this horrible deed, you can credit television for reminders.  TV now gives us a regular diet of video bloopers and funnies featuring this nasty, nausea-inducing ouch complete with that lovely “boink” sound. And I heard it loud and clear on the abovementioned night.

When my lovely bride wheeled around with the board and I spun around without looking, it was another 60’s style reunion - the weight of the earth, absolutely all the wind gone from my lungs, and the pain of fire. 

And in the spirit of the deed, she laughed like a ten-year-old. 

You’ve been watching home improvement and sell/flip your house shows, haven’t you? 

* * *

“Well thanks for joining us back at the beige, drab, Phillips’ poor excuse for a home. I’m Ryan Seacrest for Spruce that House, and we’re trying to make this plain, yucky 1700 square feet prison into something exciting. Kevin, how are we doing with the random purple Kool-Aid painted walls?”

“We are struggling with it, bro. I used to whip my kids for saying the words Kool-Aid when they were standing by a wall; now you’re telling me to blast it all over the place?  I don’t know.  I mean, won’t it get on the carpet?  You didn’t say to tape anything up?”

“Kevin, Kevin, Bo Bevin!  It is supposed to go on the carpet!  Then we’ll paint red flowers on the ceiling, add wainscoting on the dining room wall, and put a black curtain between the dining room and living room to create a fung chai bo-bo chicken vibe.  You might call it a combo c'est la vie and savoir-faire feel motif.  A “I don’t care if you care” look, if you will. Trust me, it is the latest trend.” 

The show ends and you’re treated to four carpet cleaning commercials before the next show, Sell that Sucker, starts. The theme music blazes and the shows opens with the host standing in the Phillips’ dining/living room.

“What…the…Kevin, what happened in here?” mutters Andrew Dice Clay.  Are all the hookers busy now?  ‘Cause you are obviously running some kind of home business here and it ain’t selling spaghetti sauce, if you get my meaning.”

“Ryan Seacrest was worried about my fung chai Bo Bo.”

“Oh no!  Hey, a little penicillin will take care of that, but this paint?  Makes me think of (edited for G-rated television).

“Lookie here, take all the pictures of your ugly kids off the walls before they make someone puke, go into your bathroom , dose it with some spray, please, and take those big black bloomers hanging from the ceiling back to your mom’s house; can’t have your big mom going commando now, can we? You know what I’m saying?  Simple sells.”

“But…well…Ryan said making a personal statement of who I am is important.”

“Not today, cupcake.  We gotta sell this place, so make this purple monster into a plain, beige, yucky 1700 square feet house, will ya?  Looks like a freakin’ TV dinosaur lives here or something…”

Tomorrow there will be more “do this” followed by another show pleading with you to “do that.”  In between, of course, there will be commercials selling the tools of construction and destruction, as well as promo spots for former actors who now demo bathrooms. 

Remember watching This Old House years ago?  Getting more than a little creeped out by Norm, but yet not able to turn away as he whipped up an armoire in 22 minutes?  Now the industry’s exploded right before our very eyes.  Somewhere Bob Vila must be saying, “Hey, HEY…I’ll do whatever, okay?  Like a big dog.  I will, just let me back in, please?”

Everyone whispered and wondered about it all day. We chattered like a bunch of fifth grade girls waiting for a slumber party.

“Did you get it?” we asked the guy who was supposed to get it.

“All set,” said the guy who got it.

* * *

It’s around 8:45 in the evening, and six or seven players cavort on the field the aforementioned fellow reserved. I pull my car close to the water fountain and jump out, almost forgetting to put the car in park. I’m in a hurry. In a hurry to get my spikes on, to get about five sticks of bubble gum in my mouth, to run onto the field to warm up and get ready to play. To play baseball.

It’s quiet in baseball these days.  Eerily quiet.  The steroid business grabbed the headlines for a moment, but there’s still trouble in the sport, isn’t there? It wasn’t but a couple of years ago we were talking about contraction and small market teams not surviving.

Is it the players fault? Maybe it’s the commissioner’s fault for lacking a spine. On the other hand, is it our fault as we pay outrages prices for tickets, souvenirs, and food at the stadium? Who will shoulder the responsibility for what may once again be the end of baseball? Before we get to that, there is one thing. 

There’s nothing wrong with baseball. Baseball is in fine shape, I’m telling you. We played it the other night.

Baseball isn’t revenue sharing and salary caps. It’s an outfield filled with clumps of weeds and a huge June bug buzzing around your head, too daft or fearless because he won’t be swatted away.

Baseball isn’t small market teams and free agency. It’s the craters around first and third and a cardboard second base that won’t stay put, causing a whale of an argument because it should be right here and not way over there.

It’s not a business replete with syringes and horse medicines. It’s a game resplendent with the crack of a bat and a line drive sizzling through the box, just out of the shortstop’s reach. It’s soft, red, muddy dirt in the spring and baked, gray, rock hard dirt in the summer. Baseball is a game.

So as I ran...um...rumbled out to centerfield, I spat in my glove, gave it three smacks, and with wizard-like magic shed many, many years. Instantly. Starting in centerfield, ten-year-old Kevin Phillips.

We played until about 11:40. The buzz of the light transformers droned a perfect compliment to the rhythm of our practice. For about three hours there were no problems, and no concerns. We made great catches and smacked long drives just foul. One of us even gunned down this fool trying to stretch a double into a triple. Did he not realize that yes, during the day this is a right arm, but at night, from deep in the right field alley, it’s a veritable cannon?

That’s real baseball - no cares, concerns, or problems.  Unlike my arm the next morning.

I found a dollar bill in my pants pocket as I slipped them on for work the other day. The hardy George Washington portrait made it through the wash, spin, rinse, and dry cycle, and I am beside myself with excitement. Then I read the newspaper.

By the time you read this, Bill Gates will most likely have stepped aside as the Big Cheese at Microsoft. Reckon he made a good career move dropping out of college? 

They say his net worth is 58 billion. I have it on good authority his net, net, worth is about thirty-six billion, but that's not counting the money in the old pickle jar on his nightstand.  If you include that, it comes to 58 billion. Figure 6 billion of that is what it will cost to cool that house of his this month, so let’s round it off to 52 billion.

52 billion. What do you do with everything after the first (and here you fill in the amount that equates to the phrase "too much money." For me, these days, $11.50 about covers it)? It might sound weird, but if someone took a hundred thousand dollars from you, it would go unnoticed. Why? That's like carrying around a bag with $520,000 in dollar bills, and dropping one of them. You'd never know.

Now, Bill is going to do good things, running his foundation and all; still, the sum is staggering.

I was in a local store the other day and this thing on the floor that looked like money caught my eye. Instinctively, I put my foot on it, picked it up and sure enough it was a folded up hundred dollar bill. I ran outside to the guy who’d been standing in front of me and asked him if he dropped any money. He fished in his pocket for a minute, went pale and said, "Yeah, a hundred bucks." So, I reached in my pocket, smiled, and gave him the bill.

"Thanks," he huffed, "why didn't you just give it to me in the store? Conscience kick in?"

Ah, people and their money. If you were behind Bill Gates in a little store and . . . never mind.

Fidy-two bill-yun. What if you got up in the morning, and decided your calling was to drive around in the limo, grabbing thousand-dollar handfuls of money and throwing them out the window? What if you did it fifty times each hour?

What if you did it for eight hours a day, fifty hours a week, and fifty weeks a year? (You could take two weeks off for vacation, but that's all).

 You'd "spend" a $100 million. That's akin to a tossing a $100 if you made fifty-two thousand a year. You'd be a national hero in the first scenario; in that second scenario, your wife and her father would be going rock, scissors, and paper to see who gets to commit you first.

Anyway, I'll just take my dollar, thank you. Best kind of money, isn't it, found money? I'll bet even Bill gets a little thrill when he finds a ten spot in his pants when he washes them on Saturday morning. 

He's twenty-six, tall, a good softball player, and a Texan through and through.  She's twenty-five, blonde, smart, and flashes this smile that can light up a room.  The baby is almost three, probably spoiled, but sharp as a tack.  These twentysomethings decided they're not happy anymore, and are fixin' to call it quits.

All those over twenty-seven raise your hand.  When you were young and someone laid that, “it is the journey, not the destination that makes up ‘life,’” stuff on you, did you buy it?  Me neither.  So, when this twenty-six year old Texan ran down his reasons for this breakup, I needed to bite my tongue.  And I have.  Until now.

Happiness, fella, does not come with the morning paper.  It doesn't come as a bonus with the purchase of that fine, spiffy phone, or in the glove box of that sports car you spent a ton of money on, or inside that wedding card you received a few years ago.  It's not an inalienable right, although the pursuit of it is.  If you look up the word pursue, you'll find it comes from Latin words meaning "forward," and "to follow."  Words are funny in that you can arrange them any way you want to fit your need, but I see pursue as meaning to keep on going in one direction.  Especially when it comes to a commitment.

Happiness, young lady, isn't a state you attain and then keep.  Not on this earth, anyway.  Everyone, at some point in their lives, has this wonderful vision of bliss and contentment once this or that happens.  Not so.  There are days complete with automatic, no cost upgrades, but not often.  Most feature idiots who don't know how to drive, ear infections that won't go away, muscles that ache for no reason, and doubts about the choice made. 

You told me once time that me and my wife looked happy.  We are.  Each moment of each day?  Um…

Some days we are business partners trying to figure out the best way to run this "corporation" and we go at it like junior executives vying for a promotion.  You won't find a bluebird within a country mile of either's shoulder. 

Some days I'm nine years old again and expect my "mom" to pick up after, take care of, and do everything but wipe it for me.  Tough to find any eyes sparkling with moon dust those days.  Some days she’s reached a point where she simply can’t sacrifice yet another thing because it’s the mom thing to do.  Lovely soundtrack to those evenings.   Some days are just days.  Those are the important ones, I think. 

On the days that are just days, we try to remember to say something nice, do something helpful, and thank God for healthy kids who’ve grown into great young adults.  Besides reminding each other Who is really in charge of this whole thing, there's one more thing we try to do on all the days; good, bad, or uneventful.

We work at it. 

Just like your jobs, which you both love, it takes work.  Do you have good days and bad days on the job?  Do you have days that couldn't go any better if you wrote scripts for them?  Do you have days that make you ask, "Where do I go to give up?"  It all leads to this.

If you quit your job because it wasn't happy days all the time, how many jobs would you have in your life?  Thousands, I think.  If you don't quit your job for lack of happy days, why quit this relationship for that reason?

Work at it.

"Hi, we're the Phillips', and we eat too much ice cream and cookies."

"Hi Phillips'" our Thursday crowd replied. 

# # #

I suppose it was obvious to our family, each in our own little way, but the missus named it a week or so ago.  Let me take you back in time…

Brother stopped by after work, opened the freezer and said, "Hey!"  Then he opened the pantry door and said, "Hey!  Dad!  How come you got no cookies or ice cream?"

"No more!" the Evil Mom bellowed.

"’Til tomorrow?" we asked.

"Ever," she hissed.

I’m guessing her mind was made up the evening before.  Big Sis was in town, so Brother came by to visit.  Lil’ Sis had the day off and we all celebrated by going shopping for a big supper.

Someone snuck a bag of Oreo's in the grocery cart; she grumbled about it at the checkout line, but bought them, and when she went to get some after supper, they were gone.  Not a crumb left.  White foam dribbled out the side of her mouth – a marvelous contrast to the beet redness of her face - and we were all wise enough to drop it for the moment.  Until Brother brought it up on the day mentioned.  The goober. 

I let her cool off for an hour or so and then cautiously approached.  "What's up with the cookies?"

She pointed to her favorite pair of jeans.  That’s it; just pointed at them.

"Honey, I'd love you no matter what the . . .”

"Oh, shut up."

"But I just want some cooook-ieeeess!" 

"That’s it!" Saddam...I mean she...announced.  "I've already called MADDy, and our first meeting is Thursday."

“What's MADDy?"

"Mothers against Delicious Desserts, y’all."

"Oh."

The meeting contained lots of fruit trays, posters listing the terrible caloric and fat content of goodies (headlined by some fancy European cookies), and annoying, high energy, carb–hating freaks.  It was all very motivating and we rode home in high spirits that night. 

What I’m going to do is grab this eight-year-old fellow down the block, and declare him a candidate for the Presidential campaign. 

I’ll be his campaign manager, and our whole message will be based on the First Streetlight platform.  It’s old school but very effective.  If you didn’t grow up in a big city, you may not know about First Streetlight.  If that’s the case find someone who did and they’ll tell you all about it.  For me, it went something like this. 

When I was a kid, my friends and I played hard all day.  As the spark of bright blue afternoon ignited orange-sky early evening, tempers simmered as we played ball or tag or superheroes.  Someone would get mad, a scuffle would follow, and just as the thing really came to a boil, we'd all get called to supper.  It only took one call to get us to supper.  One call, three big gulps, and for dessert a luscious helping of tease for the little sister.  After supper there was a three-course bath – much scrubbing with a side of giggles, washed down with water to cover the entire bathroom. 

Finally, we'd dribble out of our houses; little men with hair slicked back, finger wiggling in one ear trying to get the bath water out, and dressed only in a pair of cut-offs.  Once again we were an entourage of smiling, smirking, mischief-makers.

The two main scufflers from earlier would be the last to come out, briskly scrubbed and scolded by their mothers, mildly scolded and secretly questioned by their Pops.  As anger from the afternoon gurgled down bathtub drains, laughter and jokes about swinging like a sissy bubbled up.  The concoction was made complete with terrible hollers at each other all having to do with various body functions, parts, and assorted nonsense followed by the word "head." 

We'd stand around, clean and relieved of the dust and dirt of the day, and before long sunset would officially arrive.  As dusk lazily drifted in and around, a streetlight would burst into glow.  The second light would sizzle to life, then the third way down the block, and so on. 

The first to notice would yell, "First Streetlight!" and with smug satisfaction assume his roll as Big Stuff for the remainder of the evening.  Second Streetlight was not as good as first, but in the value system that made up our competitive childhood, fairly respectable.  Third was better than a stick in your eye, but not much.  If anyone was foolish enough to yell out "Fourth Streetlight," they were subject to immediate and bitter ridicule.  Someone usually, foolishly, yelled it.

In that moment, we'd unconsciously pause to lick our lips over everything the day had been, take a big bite and enjoy the evening’s things that were, and relish the promises yet to come.  The hot bath and summer breeze cooked up goosebumps and giggles in the approaching night.  As our parents perched on the porch or dallied in the driveway watering brown laws, we'd savor precious minutes stolen past our usual bedtimes. 

If you drove down our block you’d probably drive past ten boys patting their bellies at you while they pretended to pick their noses, and if you were really lucky we’d pass a little gas your way.  This day was joyously in the bag, and "First Streetlight!" was the stamp of approval on the whole thing.

The heat of the day – be it winter or summer – gives birth to battles, and this happens on a city street, at a town council meeting, and in Washington.  Always will.  In my candidate’s administration, the workday won’t start until around 11 AM.  This means scuffles can’t really get serious until late in the day, and that means suppertime can come before anything really stupid happens.  Tough, forgiving, appreciative of all things, maybe even little sisters; that’s what you’ll have to be to succeed in this administration.

After supper, my candidate will encourage all of Washington to take a bath, and he’ll require it if it’s been a particularly nasty day.  As the night begins to fall, everyone will stand outside the capitol wiggling a finger in their ear, enjoying the goosebumps the air produces.  As the day closes, someone will acknowledge it with a resounding cry of "First Streetlight!" as they forgive and forget and make funny faces at the cars passing by.  They’ll wake the next day ready to do it all over again. 

Soon enough, stuff will start getting done and we’ll all be better off.  All that other shmutz; economy, oil, and the Middle East?  Maybe we’ll just have to teach the world about First Streetlight.  That'll square things up.

After spending nearly 30 years in the restaurant business – where weekend meant busy and long shifts – I’ve spent the last three years working with the regular world.  I like this two days off in a row, weekend thing.  Gives me time ponder frivolously and is there a mo’ fun thing to do?  

Did I mention I love Saturdays?  With pillow hair stiffly saluting the ceiling, I gladly remind all that bacon is tastier, slippers are more comfortable, O.J. is…O-ier.  Soon it will be two in the afternoon and I’m thinking an old movie…a black and white movie…will be the thing.  I’ll actually read something today.  I’ll hum around in my room, shuffle through a small pile of left and right pocket papers on the dresser, and find three useful things.  And, I’ll have time ponder frivolously; is there a mo’ fun thing to do?

(Pondering music plays in the background)

Did you know first century Romans used Saturday as the first day of the week?  This day was called dies Saturni, "Saturn's Day", by the ancient Romans in honor of Saturn, the god of automobile companies who move south because they think it will be cheaper to build, but end up designing vanilla cars that don’t spark the imaginations or wallets. 

Saturn was originally thought to be the son of the most powerful Roman gods, Sell-em-junk and his half-mortal wife, Make-em-pay.  But the evil Iacocca - master of all things plastic that garner 90 day initial quality awards but then crumble to dust in a year - stole him away on a Saturday, thus forcing the quick thinking Roman marketing department to think of…something.  They simply made Saturday ‘da bomb!’ and everyone forgot about Saturn.  Now, no one thinks of him.  Probably pumps gas in some small Alabama town.  Or Tennessee, franklin.  Um…frankly.  That’s what I meant to say.

But we live and learn, I hope.  For instance, I heard recently that if you measured learning and plotted it on a graph of sorts, the learning that took place since the country was founded up until 1845 could be represented by a bar about one inch tall. 

Looking at the pace of learning in the hundred years after that, the bar would be two inches tall; what we knew doubled.  Impressive. 

From 1945 until today, what we know and how quickly we’ve learned, assimilated, and begun to utilize that knowledge would require a bar twice the height of the Washington monument.  All that and we still by Chryslers.  *shakes his head* 

That’s all for this Saturday’s pondering.  I know, it’s pretty deep stuff, but take the day to digest it, okay?

Happy Saturday!

"Men," she told me, "do things.  Women get things done."

I don't know if I quite agree with that statement.  Well, I do know if I agree or not, I'm just trying to maintain some journalistic integrity.  Let's examine the facts.

When it comes time to cut the grass, a man rolls fully prepared.  He sits down and, using finely tuned instincts, decides a course of action.  The ultimate question: cut first or trim first?  Does it look like rain?  Is the neighbor across the fence taking care of his weeds?  Does the man walk forgiven for what he accidentally cut last time?  All important factors. 

His finest grass cutting shorts (the pair someone’s tried to throw away four times) barely move in the breeze; the cotton died long ago.  A fresh jug of ice water, cell phone in right pocket in case a call comes in, and the hat with strange stains completes the uniform.  He walks the property gathering up all the loose action figures, big sticks and other sundry items.  Finally, he must decide which ballpark he wants to use as a model for his cut.

When you watch a baseball game, pay attention to the camera shots that pull back and pan across the outfield.  That criss-cross pattern?  That’s his goal; to get his backyard, or if he dares, front yard, looking like a major league outfield.  Ah, the stuff of dreams.

Then he cuts.  After a break to refill the gas tank he finishes.  Afterwards, he stands with his hands on his hips, much like Moses probably did when he saw the Promised Land.  I hope you can appreciate the love, care, and concern that go into this project.  It's done and it's done right, no matter what.

A woman fills the tank with gas, and cuts the grass.  After that she . . . mmm . . . does more stuff.  Let's move on to another example.

When a man washes clothes - hey, we got a rover on Mars, this could happen - he is the model of efficiency.  Whites go in this pile, colors in that pile, her stuff goes in the other pile.  A man does not wash her stuff; because when a man washes her stuff, invariably it wasn't supposed to be washed in the washer (goofball), or dried in the dryer (chucklehead). 

He then separates the whites into sub piles.  Any undies in the first load, plain and simple whites in the second load, and whites with any hint of color go back in the hamper.  See "does not wash" reason above. 

Colors get separated into four hundred piles, and are washed in the smallest loads possible.  Better to get griped at for doing too small a load then for . . . see above.

Once he's set, he whirls about the laundry room making sure there's a load in the dryer at all times.  All the neighborhood kids fall victim to the Pied Piper gift of ice cream and Kool-Aid made with twice the sugar, and then sent to folding.  Five crooked, gigantic piles of clothes greet the missus when she walks in the door. 

She looks on in amazement, smiles that funny smile, and makes a beeline for the washer to see if the powder blue top got washed.  You notice in the next few days she's washing a bit more frequently.  When she washes, she makes about four motions with her hands, and the clothes stand washed and folded.  Well, what I mean is, she . . . um . . .

Hey, it's time to go get tags for the car.  I'll go on the 30th; no one has money on the 30th and the lines will be shorter.  See, this is how a man thinks.  Always ahead, always trying to maximize his time.  A woman; women are notoriously late, you know, will . . . oh . . . she already got her tags?  Hmmm.

See, a man dives into his tasks with guns blazing, focused on what needs to be done, and puts forth maximum effort.  He sorts, organizes, categorizes, and plans. 

A woman, on the other hand, kind of gets . . .

What I mean is a man works out details and. . . 

What I really mean is a woman sort of. . gets . . .

Just forget it.