I had a pretty big day yesterday: Not one but two different repairmen came the house. I've documented in the past how much repairmen stress me out, but for the uninitiated I'm basically a wreck when repairmen come around because I find being with them terribly emasculating. They're big and burly and are there to fix something of mine that if I were a real man I'd be fixing myself. But yesterday two separate repairmen came and survived both of them without feeling an ounce less manly.

The first repairman came to fix our oven. It died Saturday night when we were trying to heat up some frozen pizzas. (Nobody tell us we don't go big with our weekend meal planning.) When I saw the repairmen get out of his van I became extra worried because he was African-American. I have nothing but love for African-Americans, of course (I have many black friends on Facebook), but African-American repairmen present double trouble for me because they not only make me feel like a NANCY BOY, but a WHITE NANCY BOY to boot. The only black repairmen that don't make me feel uncomfortable are the cable TV black repairmen because one of our cable boxes in my man-attic and I have a huge poster of Muhammad Ali up there. So as soon as they see it they know that I am a very cool white person. But there is no Muhammad Ali poster in our kitchen, where our oven is. The only art work is this framed poster My Lady bought of some opera at Lincoln Center. How fricking white can you get?

Thankfully, though, it all worked out. I was calm, reserved, and not nearly as self-conscious as I usually am. The repairman fixed the stove in under an hour and I managed to refrained from any awkward small talk, like about basketball and fixing things and stuff. In fact, I was probably the most normal client he had all day. Nothing Nancy boyish about me.

Nosiree Bob!

The second repairman was the tree guy, and he turned out to be even easier, mainly because I hid in my man-attic playing that new add-on for Grand Theft Auto IV the whole time he was here. You see, the best thing about having tree work done is you don't have to be there. They come, deal with the trees, and then send you a bill. So easy! For all I know the tree guy could have been a gay African-American albino. Didn't matter. I was off driving through the streets of Liberty City, laying the smackdown on hookers and pedestrians. No skin off my man back. So yeah, okay, maybe I didn't have to interact with the tree guy, but technically it still counts as an official repairman visit.

It's in the rule book.

So, yep, I'm pretty darn proud of myself. Two repairmen and I'm no worse for wear. Am still all man. I got manliness flowing through every part of my manly body. Nothing can stop me.

At least until the guy comes to read our gas meter on Thursday.