Masculinity In Crisis: Frappuchino anyone?

I'm in the habit of making myself an afternoon coffee. 

Nothing strange there. But it's quite hot here, so before you know it, it's an ice coffee. Then you add a little extra milk, some chocolate powder, a hint of vanilla perhaps, then you blend it, and voila... you're dancing in ladies underwear. 

No. I meant, voila, you have a frappuchino. Although why split hairs?  

Maybe it's because I am currently living in a world of women. I have 4 in this house alone: wife, mother, two daughters. I take Leah to her jardin, a world of women, then Maia to a different jardin, another world of women. The closest I get to a conversation with a bloke is taxi drivers, who talk only and exclusively of their hate of Chileans, and the doormen at each school. If buenas dias counts as a chat. 

I have not recollection of doing this, but I 'liked' the following link on Facebook the other day. This was no missed by several of you, and thanks for the messages of, er, support. 

Perhaps unconsciously, as a desperate attempt to cling to the last dying shred of masculinity, I find that I am inexorably drawn to the Man Tools section of any supermarket, or wander with mock nonchalance into the nearest ferreteria. 

Like any normal person, I assume that the check out person will sum up my lifestyle and make an accurate judgement based solely on my purchases. 

My standard supermarket basket looks thus: Aussie No-Worries Leave-In Conditioner, scented candles, Barcardi Breezers (Lime), tinted moisturiser... then a few things for Katie... followed by a saw, some workman's gloves, Playboy and a flagon of methylated spirits. 

No better way to grip a frappu than a solid pair of workman's gloves.  What? 

 Identity crisis anyone? Not me.