I’ve reclaimed my balls. Reclaimed my balls and upped my C.I. by one. You know, cylinder index, the number of pistons in the internal combustion engines one owns. It’s directly proportional to ones machismo rating. This puts me at 16. Admittedly some guys hit 16 with just a their car and their pickup, but it took me three cars, a lawn mower and now a snowblower to hit that level. But it’s a new high for me.

The reason I say I’ve reclaimed my balls is because I bought the blower against my wife’s wishes. She did not see that this was a great investment. One of MM’s nieghbors is moving to California, where he won’t be needing a snowblower (at least until the state breaks away and drifts down to the Antarctic) and he had this beauty for sale. Seven horse, 24 inches of snow spitting power! He bought it last year and only used it twice, there isn’t even any paint worn off the auger blades! He was letting it go for five hundred bucks, just a little more than half price. It’s pristine.
I’ve been thinking about buying one soon. I think I’ve developed an alergy to shovels. Everytime I get near one I start to sweat, get short of breath and suffer from back, knee and shoulder pain. I used to look at shoveling as a good workout and kind of scoff at guys that needed to use machines to move their snow. But let’s face it, guys my age have heart attacks shoveling snow and real men have motorized toys.

When I conferred with Becky about the purchase she wasn’t too excited about the deal. I think most guys would just buy the thing without consulting their wives, but the truth of the matter is that at our house there’s little doubt about who’s in charge. So I decided to pass up the deal. Last weekend we got a moderate snowfall and on the way home from the basketball game Sunday, I indicated that I wanted Beck to help me shovel. She blew me off, so I was out there on our steeply inclined driveway with my knee aching and swearing under my breath when she and Q came out to get in Q’s car and go shopping. I had to finish digging out behind Q’s car, (good luck getting her to help) which meant I had to dig through the berm that the snowplow leaves when it goes by on the street. Which is the hardest shoveling there is. They stood and watched. That was the last straw. When they got back I looked my wife in the eye and said, “I’m buying the snowblower and you better not say a word.”
That felt great. Maybe I’ll just go out and buy a boat.