Confessions

There are certain texts you don't expect to receive at 7:42 on a Saturday morning. Honey: You awake? I stared at my phone. Technically, yes. Emotionally, no. Me: Depends. Three dots appeared. Honey: On what? Me: Why you're asking. The dots disappeared. Then came back. Honey: Get dressed. Well. That woke me up. I sat up in bed. There are several ways a man can interpret a woman texting get dressed before eight o'clock on a Saturday morning. I chose all of them. Me: That's disa

I hired a woman to help me finish my bedroom. In retrospect, I probably should have worded that differently. There are certain things a thirty-nine-year-old man should know how to do. Change a tire. Grill a steak. Know when the check-engine light means eventually and when it means pull the fuck over. And, apparently, hang drywall. I did not know how to hang drywall. I learned this at 8:07 on a Saturday morning when a Ford Bronco pulled into my driveway and a woman named Honey