May 28, 2002

Today was a beautiful weather day in Toronto. Sunny and warm and not too humid. I took the scenic route from my office up to the staff room by going outside for a burst of fresh air and sunlight. This was during recess. Looking out across the field, I could see the boys taking part in the traditional recess activities - playing ball, running about, getting dirty. Closer to the doors, some boys were trading hockey cards. I was pleasantly surprised to see this slice of Canadiana taking place here. Over the past decade it had been supplanted by the craze of the day - pogs, pokemon, Magic: The Gathering, you name it. Basking in the glow of nostalgia, I took the stairs up to the turning circle and the staff entrance. Sitting upon a bench there, I saw another boy; head hunched over, a look of concentration upon his face. "Don't tell me he's quietly sitting there, actually enjoying a book" I thought to myself. What another pleasant surprise! As I approached, I saw that what he was holding in his hands was far too small to be reading material. Seeing another boy peering anxiously over his shoulder, I put two and two together. My suspicions were confirmed as I walked past. He was sitting outside on this gorgeous spring day, playing with a Gameboy.

I have come to the conclusion that I am officially a kept man, a girlie guy, living in a testosterone lite zone, [insert your own euphemism here]. The light bulb moment? We were in the midst of a 4 hour shop-a-thon on Saturday, searching for some beige slacks for Lisa. She holds up a pair and asks me if I think they look beige or yellow. I cast a discriminating eye upon them and say "They look like they are a butter-yellow to me."

Butter-yellow? When have I ever described anything, let alone women's slacks, as being butter-yellow in my life?

It got worse. I would scout out ahead after we entered each new store, on the prowl for just the right pants. I could tell the difference between the Capri pants, the regular fit and the petite. I knew that linen pants wouldn't work, as they would wrinkle horribly in a suitcase during a long flight to Vancouver, but denim would be fine. I knew the sizes that Lisa could wear. I developed *gasp* a keen eye when it came to ladies wear.

Never mind the fact that I endured 4 hours in a crowded mall on Saturday. We went to another mall last night for a 3 hour tour. 7 hours of clothes shopping in a 72 hour period! I must be insane. Or married.

It's not just the shopping that clues one in to my status. I do the laundry, I clean the dishes, I take care of the kitty litter, I share in the vacuuming, cleaning and cooking. I am House Husband! Tremble before me!

I'm not even going to begin to speak of how I snurfle during the reveal on Trading Spaces when the homeowner cries in happiness at the results, or how I can distinguish between a terracotta orangey-red colour and a deeper brick red, or . . . I think I'd best shush now. I have to go pick Lisa up from her work, so we can get home in time for the start of the hockey game. Go Leafs Go!

Oh yeah. The playoffs. Guess which one of us gets downright ornery watching the games, cursing at the refs and the Leafs, squirming in their seat, not able to watch tense moments? If you said me, *bzzzzt* wrong answer! I'm being out-fanned by my own wife.

Butter-yellow. I'm doomed.

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