Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Man Card

Today I was approached by a young man in my office who had a question. Not a work related Human Resources question, but a question he said I was qualified to answer because I am a mom. I took his comment as a somewhat convoluted compliment and told him to fire away. He wanted to know if he needed a tetanus shot. It appears that when he let his dogs out on his lunch break, he sustained a scratch/scrape on his finger. Upon inspection, I found no evidence of this so called "scratch" and assured him I thought his need for a tetanus shot was somewhat overstated. He asked me if I was sure. I made sure I answered him - in English this time - and told him again, "no shot necessary". He thanked me for my time, this whole transaction took 10 minutes of my life that I undoubtedly will never get back, then he went and asked another "mother".

Now, I'm not a guy, nor a nurse, but I'm pretty sure I know the difference between a sissy and an injury. Case in point, my son-in-law cut his finger this weekend helping remove carpet from my lovely home (a future Home Improvement blog to be sure). He bled profusely, wrapped it in a paper towel and whined loudly when I insisted on seeing it, as well as putting a bandage on it. That's a injury! Real blood, followed by "it's nothing" and "no, I don't need stitches". Do you see the difference here? Anyway, I think I'm going to call in my employee's man card.

It probably doesn't help that my first job outside of the mall was in a hardware store. At this job, I learned how to fix a toilet (just ask my college roommates), hook up the water supply to my ice maker, repair PVC pipe, learn to tell the difference between a wood screw and a drywall screw, etc., In conjunction with learning these skills, I was ignored when I approached a male customer to ask him if he needed help and he asked if I shouldn't be behind the register. Hmmm.

I am well aware of my limitations in the "man" department. I still have trouble starting my lawn mower (a dear friend of mine says I can't start it cause I don't have testicles to grab while yanking on the string). I needed help replacing my garbage disposal and relighting my pilot on my gas furnace, the whole open flame + gas thing freaks me out, but for the most part, I am self sufficient. My question is, if I have managed to gain all of this "man" life experience, why can't a grown man figure out 1) if he needs a tetanus shot 2) believe me when I say he doesn't? I'm not sure but I suspect it's because my testicles are disguised as breasts.

Hey, I have an idea in regard to starting my lawnmower...

Monday, April 20, 2009

What Day Is It?

Okay, so today is my anniversary. Well, it would be my anniversary if I would've stayed married. I've managed to get well beyond my "divorced" status probably due to the fact that I have been divorced a lot longer than I was married. What's bothering me today is the "alone" factor.

Since my venture into Facebook (see earlier post), I've come to find out that all the really cool men in my life, meaning the ones that actually left an impression, are no longer single. Take for example my first love. Twister. Twister and I were an item in my youth. We had passion, vision and different religious backgrounds. He was catholic, I was not. He was going to heaven, I, according to his mother, was not. Needless to say, the bliss of young love didn't last. I married Music Man, Twister married someone wretched and off we went. The last time I spoke with him, his "girlfriend" from the Philippines was waiting for her US Visa so she could come to the states and begin their happily ever after. Hmmmm

Then there is Music Man. He is the father of my girls and we continue to be connected. He was, and still is funny, charming and able to push all of my buttons without batting an eyelash. He lives nearby and is married to someone I don't hate. It's like winning the bonus round!

Next comes a string of fine men I knew in my previous life. TC, who was dear to me and helped me realize there is life after divorce. A wine lover with excellent plumbing skills, a love for music, and a softy where my girls were concerned. He's married. K-man, (see TC), a true friend who showered me and my girls with green carnations on St. Patrick's Day and presents wrapped in the Sunday Funnies at Christmas. Not married but not available either. Macho Man, my bff's ex, a deep thinker who was whip smart, a foodie and music lover, but not always compassionate when he needed to be. Not married but soon to be a father. And of course, Mr. Former. Do you see the pattern here?

I'd hate to think these men left an indelible impression on me without me having returned the favor. I know some of my finest moments were spent in and around their company. I have friendships, at least surface friendships, with all of them. My life is better having known them and I would like to think they feel the same.

So why is it that they, with all of their faults, are halves of a whole, peas in a pod, ying to the yang when I am alone? Just something for me to ponder on this noteworthy day.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Judging by our Feet

During a recent conversation with a dear friend and co-worker, I came to the conclusion, again, that we (women) are our own worst enemy. We lamented on how our perception of our bodies delegate how valuable we are or whether we should even attempt to date. I know it doesn't make sense but we are so concerned with our outward "beauty" that it resonates down to our feet.

Case in point, a few weeks ago I was in New York visiting my oldest and dearest friend. She hosted a party at her house during my visit. I had an idea about photographing our feet. No, I don't play host to a foot fetish, but I've always liked my feet. Here's how it played out.

Imagine if you will, a house full of party guests, half of whom are women. We've been drinking for a least two hours, sang the words to every commercial or 70's TV show we could think of, discussed how we met our significant others and shared our drunken views of politics. I mention my idea, break out my camera and ask for participants. Suddenly, all the women are sober and are rationalizing whether or not to participate. "I haven't had a pedicure all winter", "but my feet are gross", "if I take my feet out of my boots, I'll never get them to go back in", "you're weird and no, I won't take my shoes off". I reassure them that the picture will not indicate the owner of the foot, just the willingness to participate. I tell them that I'm not doing this because I'm drunk, but because I believe our feet are the unsung hero's of our bodies.

As a child, my feet ran across hot sand at the beach, hot pavement on the way to the ice cream truck and stuck in the spokes of my brother's bicycle. As a teenager, I painted my toe nails (still do), wore toe socks and danced at my senior prom. As an adult, my feet carried me down the aisle, into the hospital to deliver my children and into divorce court. As a middle aged lady, I have given up "sexy" shoes for sneakers, still opt for bare feet on my way out to my hammock and allow my grandson to stand on the tops of them for an added inch of height. I abuse them by standing on them too long without shoes and reward them with spa pedicures. They are mine all mine and I love the way they look.

By adding a little more pressure and a little more alcohol to the ladies at the party, I was successful in getting about two thirds of them to participate. Today, I celebrate my feet and their ability to get me out of bed when I don't want to, to church on Sunday, to the dance floor when the music calls and for being a true reflection of my beauty, unlike the rest of my body. I also celebrate the women of East Meadow, NY for indulging me in my experiment. Judging by their feet, they are all beautiful!