I’ve never really connected well with Regular Men.

I guess it’s hard to define what a regular man is, since each person’s definition differs. I believe, however, that the general consensus would explain such a creature as animalistic – an unrefined, pungent beast sporting a large appetite and copious quantities of body hair sprouting liberally across its hide.

In fact, I have such a friend who is so hairy that I firmly believe he has strands that don’t originate at pores, but instead grow from existing pieces, not much unlike twigs extending from tree branches.

The men I picture grunt often, sometimes due to involuntary digestive functions, but frequently just to survive, like any other citizen would blink or breathe.

I walk by them sometimes while they are in their small groups, standing behind their large pickup trucks. They communicate their complex personalities with window stickers of Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes urinating on logos of Ford Motor Co. or the New York Yankees.

Although they do not express it explicitly, I presume that I should not approach them and solicit an order of fine cooking supplies from my Pampered Chef Catalog Party.

Such men have likely never touched Pampers that they haven’t worn themselves as toddlers and probably have no interest in becoming chefs. But that is what separates me from them.

Still, there is more that unites us than divides us, as evidenced by my victimization by an attractive lady with a wide smile and ample persistence.

She’s the wife of a friend and a Pampered Chef consultant. She has done well with it, and for that I’m pleased, but I had no interest in becoming any part of her business.

It was on her third request during a gathering of friends last Saturday that I finally humored her by opening the catalog. “Look,” I said. “I will flip through these pages, and I guarantee you that I have most of the stuff in here already. My wife is easy prey for people like you, and I’m sure at least 30 percent of the items currently in my home contain the Pampered Chef logo.”

Confident in my immunity to her pitch, I turned page after page before suddenly stopping somewhere in the middle. “Oh, man. We could really use some of these cookie sheets. Ours have lost their lubricity and are a pain to use.”

I suddenly caught myself, partly after recognizing I was yielding to her power, but mostly because of a compulsion to grunt in an effort to prove that I was at least a distant relative to the Regular Man species.

The next five minutes were a blur, but when I finally returned to my senses, I was holding a catalog in my left hand in a manner that implied ownership and hearing her remind me that the party closes on Oct. 3.

So while Regular Men are having parties involving liquor, chicks and Skynyrd, I’m dancing around the daisy fields of life with catalog in hand, searching for those interested in my own brand of party, consisting of quality cooking items at reasonable prices.

Which compels me to ask you Regular Men a couple of important questions.

1. Would you be interested in ordering cookware through Pampered Chef? My party closes on Friday, Oct. 3, 2008. Order online by following the link on the homepage of chris

quimby.com, and,

2. Seriously, where did you get all that hair?

Of course, women can also order from my party. And I offer reassurance to anyone who might fear that this new endeavor could evacuate the last evidence of masculinity left in my body, as I have begun growing a small beard to add necessary balance to the universe.

Not much unlike a Regular Man.

Chris Quimby is a stand-up comedian and humor columnist who works as a graphic arts technician at the BDN.