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...
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
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.
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!
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!
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Dance More
Today is a dreary day in Atlanta. I've been told it's the beginning of 4 to 5 days of rain, which we desperately need, but I will find totally depressing. In order to be more proactive with my somewhat tempestuous mental health, I was contemplating how to battle the little black clouds that will soon be swirling around my head. Since it's inappropriate to have a cocktail at noon on a workday (which creates swirling of another nature), I've decided to dance more.
For those of you that don't know me - I don't dance. I move my feet, swing my arms, nod my head, etc., but I definitely don't dance. Rather than moving like Beyonce' or Janet Jackson, I move more like Kevin James in the movie "Hitch". It's a series of movements that have been known to leave some people speechless, others snickering and my daughters totally embarrassed. In my defense, I haven't injured myself since Line Dancing was popular.
Which of my female friends hasn't felt the inexplicable high of dancing to "Mustang Sally" in the dingiest of bars? There's something about the about the way that song begins that just summons my feet to the middle of the dance floor. Forget about the fact that the last "modern" dance I learned was either the Macarena or the Hustle. I hear the first chord of that song and I surrender the urge to fight. My sister, my girlfriend(s) and any other person of the female persuasion suddenly join me in my plight. Arms are in the air, booties are shaking, hips are gyrating and we're singing to each other at the tops of our lungs. During this daring show of female fortitude I, we, forget the boyfriend (or lack there of), kids, laundry, conference calling, blow drying, nail breaking, menial tasks of my day to day life. Instead, my life becomes all about the music, the dance and sheer unadulterated joy I have in not giving a hoot about who's watching and what they are thinking.
Dancing is good for my soul. It inspires me. It leaves me feeling like I can survive another day, hour or minute. It chases my blues, and sometimes the men who take me to the dingiest bar, away. It refreshes, reminds and requires me to be happy. What better way to survive!
Sorry, but I have to go. I hear Boot Scoot Boogie in the radio. Time to DANCE!
For those of you that don't know me - I don't dance. I move my feet, swing my arms, nod my head, etc., but I definitely don't dance. Rather than moving like Beyonce' or Janet Jackson, I move more like Kevin James in the movie "Hitch". It's a series of movements that have been known to leave some people speechless, others snickering and my daughters totally embarrassed. In my defense, I haven't injured myself since Line Dancing was popular.
Which of my female friends hasn't felt the inexplicable high of dancing to "Mustang Sally" in the dingiest of bars? There's something about the about the way that song begins that just summons my feet to the middle of the dance floor. Forget about the fact that the last "modern" dance I learned was either the Macarena or the Hustle. I hear the first chord of that song and I surrender the urge to fight. My sister, my girlfriend(s) and any other person of the female persuasion suddenly join me in my plight. Arms are in the air, booties are shaking, hips are gyrating and we're singing to each other at the tops of our lungs. During this daring show of female fortitude I, we, forget the boyfriend (or lack there of), kids, laundry, conference calling, blow drying, nail breaking, menial tasks of my day to day life. Instead, my life becomes all about the music, the dance and sheer unadulterated joy I have in not giving a hoot about who's watching and what they are thinking.
Dancing is good for my soul. It inspires me. It leaves me feeling like I can survive another day, hour or minute. It chases my blues, and sometimes the men who take me to the dingiest bar, away. It refreshes, reminds and requires me to be happy. What better way to survive!
Sorry, but I have to go. I hear Boot Scoot Boogie in the radio. Time to DANCE!
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Mr. Wonderful
They say there is someone for everyone and I have been thinking about that a lot lately. Not sure what has brought it to the forefront other than the fact that I have no life. My normal day consists of getting up way too early, driving literally across town to my job, finding creative ways to keep smart people from doing or saying things they will regret, driving back across town to my little home, entertaining my grandson for a few hours a couple of nights per week, attempting to have a meaningful conversation with whichever daughter may be in the vicinity, finding cereal and milk that isn't spoiled, enjoying a glass of inexpensive (read cheap) wine, then finding my way under the covers. Granted I don't follow this same path every night, but I do follow it frequently. Which leads me to the question, would I have time for Mr. Wonderful if I did meet him?
Who is my "Mr. Wonderful"? I have no idea, but here are some examples of who he is not. In the past year I've had the opportunity to date four men. Contestant #1 was a successful business man. Good looking, one year my junior, kids, an ex-wife (who appeared to be content as an ex) and a drinker. Now mind you, it's not my place to say he drank too much and I did match him drink for drink on our first date. But given the fact that he passed out on our 3rd date, I hollered "next".
Contestant #2 was Santa. No, really, he was a professional Santa as well as a massage therapist, electrician and Harley dude. I'm a fan of Harley dudes but was taken back by the fact that he only talked about his work. He had kids, which I rarely heard about, two ex-wives that I didn't want to hear about and a need to get married sooner rather than later. Next!
Contestant # 3 was a Cajun. It was my first experience with the accent, which was challenging but fun. However he was a never married, kid-less guy living in a bachelor pad at the age of 47. Plus are flip-flops ALWAYS appropriate? I'm thinking not so much. Next!
Contestant # 4 doesn't really count because it was only one date. I liked him. He said I smelled like coconut. I guess he yelled "next".
So who is my Mr. Wonderful? I suspect I've met pieces of him time and again. He's taller than me, has a wonderful sense of humor and is tolerant of mine. He isn't married. He doesn't care if I drink wine and he can hold his liquor. He no longer finds it necessary to smoke pot. He believes in God, encourages prayer, has a car that works, and he works as well. If he doesn't have kids, he's okay with the fact that I do and supports my strong sense of family. He doesn't let his dog sleep on my bed and he picks up his underwear because I won't. He finds the fact that I'm nutty part of my charm. He allows me to cry when I watch Steel Magnolia's without making fun of me. He understands stretch marks, ta-ta's that aren't what they used to be and the fact that sometimes I wait too long before I color my hair. He enjoys music, allows me to sing in the car and respects the fact that when I have a song stuck in my head, I sing it out loud until it's stuck in someone else's head.
Have you seen him? Do you know him? I'm currently accepting applications.
Who is my "Mr. Wonderful"? I have no idea, but here are some examples of who he is not. In the past year I've had the opportunity to date four men. Contestant #1 was a successful business man. Good looking, one year my junior, kids, an ex-wife (who appeared to be content as an ex) and a drinker. Now mind you, it's not my place to say he drank too much and I did match him drink for drink on our first date. But given the fact that he passed out on our 3rd date, I hollered "next".
Contestant #2 was Santa. No, really, he was a professional Santa as well as a massage therapist, electrician and Harley dude. I'm a fan of Harley dudes but was taken back by the fact that he only talked about his work. He had kids, which I rarely heard about, two ex-wives that I didn't want to hear about and a need to get married sooner rather than later. Next!
Contestant # 3 was a Cajun. It was my first experience with the accent, which was challenging but fun. However he was a never married, kid-less guy living in a bachelor pad at the age of 47. Plus are flip-flops ALWAYS appropriate? I'm thinking not so much. Next!
Contestant # 4 doesn't really count because it was only one date. I liked him. He said I smelled like coconut. I guess he yelled "next".
So who is my Mr. Wonderful? I suspect I've met pieces of him time and again. He's taller than me, has a wonderful sense of humor and is tolerant of mine. He isn't married. He doesn't care if I drink wine and he can hold his liquor. He no longer finds it necessary to smoke pot. He believes in God, encourages prayer, has a car that works, and he works as well. If he doesn't have kids, he's okay with the fact that I do and supports my strong sense of family. He doesn't let his dog sleep on my bed and he picks up his underwear because I won't. He finds the fact that I'm nutty part of my charm. He allows me to cry when I watch Steel Magnolia's without making fun of me. He understands stretch marks, ta-ta's that aren't what they used to be and the fact that sometimes I wait too long before I color my hair. He enjoys music, allows me to sing in the car and respects the fact that when I have a song stuck in my head, I sing it out loud until it's stuck in someone else's head.
Have you seen him? Do you know him? I'm currently accepting applications.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Ta-Ta's
Yesterday was my annual smashing of the ta-ta's a.k.a. my mammogram. I go every year, somewhat willingly, even though it's about one my of least favorite things to do. Since I'm 46, I am no amateur at this surprisingly mean and uncomfortable test. However, no matter how many times I go, it still surprises me. With the advancement of medicine in the past 100 years, you would think someone would come up with a method to look at breast tissue without requiring you to have your breast compressed in a vice. Here is a recap of my recent visit...
Hello Miss Meandering Mind. My name is Squisher. I'll be conducting your breast exam today. Please remove all clothing from the waist up, then allow me to place this band-aid like tape with a b.b. in the middle right on top of your nipple. Oh wait, is that a skin tag I see? I will need to place b.b. embedded band-aids on all of those too. Now, step up to the machine, rest your right breast on the plate, relax your shoulder, tip your head back, turn toward me, step in closer, drop your left hip, do the hokey pokey and turn yourself around. Ready??? Hold your breath and don't move. Now not wanting to be rude, I think to myself you have my boob in a vice! I can't even begin to breathe much less move from this god forsaken position so just shoot the film why don't you. If, by some miracle, they manage to get a good "picture" - which translates into the fact that my body didn't begin spasming out of the sheer pain of being held in place by this horrendous machine - I get to remove my now flattened breast from the plastic plate. Don't leave it up there too long Squisher says, or it will stick to the plastic. Are you kidding me? Leave it up there too long? I just want to grab it before it detaches itself from my rib cage. Now, we need another view.... and so it goes. Just to add insult to injury, as I get out of my gown and into my clothes, I cannot find the b.b. embedded tape that was placed on my right nipple. I suspect it shot off and flew across the room when I was holding my breath.
I complain about this procedure but go willingly out of respect for my body, my daughters and my remembrance of Maw-Maw, my wonderful neighbor. However, if I hear one more guy complaining that they had to bend over and cough, I just might put them in a vice!
Hello Miss Meandering Mind. My name is Squisher. I'll be conducting your breast exam today. Please remove all clothing from the waist up, then allow me to place this band-aid like tape with a b.b. in the middle right on top of your nipple. Oh wait, is that a skin tag I see? I will need to place b.b. embedded band-aids on all of those too. Now, step up to the machine, rest your right breast on the plate, relax your shoulder, tip your head back, turn toward me, step in closer, drop your left hip, do the hokey pokey and turn yourself around. Ready??? Hold your breath and don't move. Now not wanting to be rude, I think to myself you have my boob in a vice! I can't even begin to breathe much less move from this god forsaken position so just shoot the film why don't you. If, by some miracle, they manage to get a good "picture" - which translates into the fact that my body didn't begin spasming out of the sheer pain of being held in place by this horrendous machine - I get to remove my now flattened breast from the plastic plate. Don't leave it up there too long Squisher says, or it will stick to the plastic. Are you kidding me? Leave it up there too long? I just want to grab it before it detaches itself from my rib cage. Now, we need another view.... and so it goes. Just to add insult to injury, as I get out of my gown and into my clothes, I cannot find the b.b. embedded tape that was placed on my right nipple. I suspect it shot off and flew across the room when I was holding my breath.
I complain about this procedure but go willingly out of respect for my body, my daughters and my remembrance of Maw-Maw, my wonderful neighbor. However, if I hear one more guy complaining that they had to bend over and cough, I just might put them in a vice!
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
It's Only Television
It's been an interesting week. First, the Atlanta area was hit by a freakish snow "storm" on 3/1/09. I use the term storm with some creative license, but for Atlanta, anything more than frost in the morning is cause for concern. Since there was actual snow on the ground for more than 24 hours, apparently all we had to do was watch television.
Monday night was the season finale of "The Bachelor". I have to tell you that I followed the show the first two, maybe three, seasons. I watched until Trista found her true love and my almost true love, Mr. Former, emailed me wistfully how he so would like to be like Ryan. He discreetly told me how he longed for the ability to open up and pour his feelings out for me like Ryan did for Trista. My remembrance of the show was that he drew her a picture. Regardless, I stopped following for a while.
This season, Jason (last season's reject and a cute guy from Seattle) and the first single parent to ever be on the show, was there to find true love. He had the garden variety contestants, which contained a few weirdo's, some lovely ladies, one or two psychos and at least a "ho" or two. In the end, it came down to Melissa and Molly. Everyone at work was rooting for Melissa and quite frankly, by T.V. standards, they looked like the perfect pair. She was charming, beautiful and had a pretty good day with Jason's little boy. In the end, he dropped to one knee and presented Melissa with a fantastic Neil Lane engagement ring. Unfortunately, the next thing we saw was him breaking up with her on national television, a mere six weeks later. Oh, the horror! Not only did he break up with Melissa, he told the host he still had feelings for Molly.
Now, I am far from perfect and I have never had the opportunity to have my pick of 25 men at one time, but I do know that finding love, for me, has not been easy. Is it possible to fall in love with the two people at the same time? I honestly do not know. What I do know is that it sucked to have my marriage come apart in my "public arena", which included family and a few close friends. I feel bad for Melissa but suspect at the tender young age of 25, she will have many opportunities to find someone who takes the time to get to know her, outside of the TV arena, and fall in love. My best guess is he won't propose to her in New Zealand, but more likely over a romantic dinner or maybe at the beach. Melissa needs to cut her losses and run. The saddest thing isn't that Jason was conflicted and changed his mind, it's the fact that the Neil Lane ring was to die for!
Monday night was the season finale of "The Bachelor". I have to tell you that I followed the show the first two, maybe three, seasons. I watched until Trista found her true love and my almost true love, Mr. Former, emailed me wistfully how he so would like to be like Ryan. He discreetly told me how he longed for the ability to open up and pour his feelings out for me like Ryan did for Trista. My remembrance of the show was that he drew her a picture. Regardless, I stopped following for a while.
This season, Jason (last season's reject and a cute guy from Seattle) and the first single parent to ever be on the show, was there to find true love. He had the garden variety contestants, which contained a few weirdo's, some lovely ladies, one or two psychos and at least a "ho" or two. In the end, it came down to Melissa and Molly. Everyone at work was rooting for Melissa and quite frankly, by T.V. standards, they looked like the perfect pair. She was charming, beautiful and had a pretty good day with Jason's little boy. In the end, he dropped to one knee and presented Melissa with a fantastic Neil Lane engagement ring. Unfortunately, the next thing we saw was him breaking up with her on national television, a mere six weeks later. Oh, the horror! Not only did he break up with Melissa, he told the host he still had feelings for Molly.
Now, I am far from perfect and I have never had the opportunity to have my pick of 25 men at one time, but I do know that finding love, for me, has not been easy. Is it possible to fall in love with the two people at the same time? I honestly do not know. What I do know is that it sucked to have my marriage come apart in my "public arena", which included family and a few close friends. I feel bad for Melissa but suspect at the tender young age of 25, she will have many opportunities to find someone who takes the time to get to know her, outside of the TV arena, and fall in love. My best guess is he won't propose to her in New Zealand, but more likely over a romantic dinner or maybe at the beach. Melissa needs to cut her losses and run. The saddest thing isn't that Jason was conflicted and changed his mind, it's the fact that the Neil Lane ring was to die for!
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