Confessions of a Helpless Man

Nothing that 7 frozen lasagnas can't fix

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My wife left home for seven days this morning, to look after her sister in Baltimore who’s getting a knee replaced. I’m going to Kroger this afternoon, to buy seven frozen lasagnas.

For a couple years when I was 8 and 9, after my birth mom died and before my dad remarried, my dad and I bachelored-it. Jim Daugherty had the culinary skills of a wax figure. For breakfast, we stuck frozen waffles into the toaster. For lunch, Jim made a credible fried-egg sandwich. There was no dinner that didn’t involve the kindness of strangers.

In those crucial growth years, I lost half my body mass and a crucial role model for basic kitchen survival. I could get myself up in the AM, after Jim left for work, operate the toaster, put the front-door key on a string around my neck and locate the school bus. I couldn’t break an egg.

Sad to say, not much has changed. We men like to think we have life tamed. There’s not much we can’t handle around the castle. What we should say is, there’s not much we can’t handle, as long as we handle only certain things. Making a pot roast, say, or remembering fabric softener. Seven lasagnas sounds good.

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I can master oatmeal. I can assemble an impressive PB&J. I cannot wash anything. I cannot function at Kroger beyond the beer aisle. I can change the oil in my car. I cannot feed myself beyond subsistence level. I’m not good at measuring cups.

In a week, Kerry will return to a man with hollowed-out eye sockets and a case of scurvy. The guy will be wandering the house, mumbling, “I can’t find my socks.’’ The laundry room will be submerged because the man forgot the washer was a front-loader.

The bed will be interesting, archaeologically. But no more than the kitchen sink.

Kerry, knowing well the truth, will look kindly upon the man. “Your fly’s open,’’ she’ll say.

She will acquaint him with the business end of a mop, but not before she has given him specific instructions on its use. She will explain why ketchup should not be applied to the lasagna. Certainly not while it’s frozen. She will ask him, gently, to bathe.

He will comply, because that is what husbands do. Personally, I like to think I’m helping my wife with her self-esteem. You know, making her feel needed.

“You, Doc, are a Cro-Magnon. Were you always this sexist?’’

Oh, yeah. Very much so.

Now, then. . .

Is this guy available? Mike Marshall. Lookimup, kids.

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WANTED, RELIEVERS WITH TWO ARMS. . . I have this recurring dream lately, in which Buck Farmer throws a fastball that causes his pitching arm to detach at the shoulder. The arm arrives in Tyler Stephenson’s mitt half a second behind the baseball. Both ball and arm are called strikes and the Reds escape a bases loaded situation unscathed.

Farmer is credited with a hold and a save.

“Talk about taking one for the team,’’ David Bell said afterward.

Added pitching coach Derek Johnson, “Most guys are willing to lend a hand. But a whole shoulder? Wow.’’

Maybe the Reds don’t use their bullpen the way chefs use salt. It’s possible every team in Baseball treats its bullpen in a way that would violate national labor laws. But I doubt it.

The Reds used five relievers Monday-into-Tuesday, and six more for Tuesday’s regularly scheduled game. David Bell doesn’t spend any time on the treadmill/stepper/x-trainer et cetera. He just walks from the dugout to the mound and back. The Small Park grounds crew is thinking of installing an AstroTurf path to cut down on maintenance.

The Reds have used at least three relievers in each of their last 12 games. They’ve had 22 relief appearances since Friday, across five games. A Reds reliever has entered a game 355 times this year. That leads all baseball. The Reds also lead the game in the number of relief appearances made in so-called high-leverage situations. Not only do Reds relievers pitch more than anyone, they pitch more in big stress situations than anyone.

Four Reds relievers have at least 43 appearances. Buck (One Shoulder) Farmer has 45. This does not include the number of times a reliever has warmed up without getting into the game. If there’s a stat for Most Times Warmed Up, please phone it in.

It’s possible, likely even, that sometime between now and Oct. 1, Fernando Cruz will throw a breaking ball, then ask for timeout to look for his missing elbow. (It’s over there, by Ian Gibaut’s UCL.) I feel bad I don’t know Gibaut personally. Since April, I’ve seen him more than my wife. I’m thinking of asking Alex Young over for dinner. I see him only slightly less than Crazy Chester the dog.

Maybe we should start referring to the local bullpen as The Gulag. Instead of sentencing small criminals to work-release, we’ll assign them to the Reds bullpen.

(This is where I pause and write, “all kidding aside,’’ except I’m not 100 percent sure I’m kidding.)

The ‘pen is showing the effects of bustin’ bricks. Alexis Diaz was automatic, now he’s losing a few ticks off his fastball. Derek Law and Farmer blew leads in the same game last night. And it’s only July. We’ve spent a few weeks insisting the Club acquire starting pitching. Maybe we have it wrong. It’s relievers the Reds should stockpile. They’re a lot easier to find, less risky and expensive and far more disposable.

If I’m Bell, I tell my best spare-parts guys to suck it up and pack lightly. We won’t be needing youse anymore after we add five relievers to the roster. Nothing says “championship aspirations’’ more than a 14-man bully.

I MIGHT READ A LITTLE, TOO, in between making chateaubriand and tiramisu for one. Right now, I’m slogging through Grisham’s Playing For Pizza. It’s a novel about a washed-up, fringe-y NFL backup QB, playing a season in Italy. I got it before we went to Italy, about a month ago. I’ve made it exactly 98 pages.

So, a question: Are you the kind of person who must finish a book he starts? I am. Or at least I try to be, which explains why I’m still reading Playing For Pizza. It’s a book written for 6th-graders, basically. I’m thinking Grisham has made his publisher enough money, he could write the contents of a recipe book and the publisher would be OK with it.

Given that we are headed to Ponte Vedra presently and there are no new Hiaasens to be devoured, I’ll take some book recommendations. Light, inconsequential, preferably something that doesn’t shake my faith in humanity. No non-courtroom Grishams. Grazie.

TUNE O’ THE DAY. . . The topic yesterday was Torch Songs, sort of. Today, give me your finest. A couple of mine: JD Souther’s When You’re Only Lonely; Linda Ronstadt’s A Long, Long Time, Hall & Oates’ Forever For You and, forgive me, men, Barry Manilow’s Tryin’ To Get the Feelin’ Again.

Here’s John David Souther. Lovely, lovely tune.