The one where the cats win

It’s funny the thoughts that pass through your mind while you’re awaiting rescue.

I don’t know how I got under the pile of boxes in the basement, but I do know this: we don’t need to save another box just in case we might need one.

The last thing I remember was dialing the phone and leaving MathMan a voicemail that I was having second thoughts about everything in life. That I’d decided that the best way to find my purpose was to become a Rick Santorum groupie.

That may have happened as a result of the cat food eating contest I got into with the monstrous ginger tabby. Oh, I won, but who knows what those cats spiked my food with. You know how cats are. Especially in groups.

I’m getting ahead of myself. The contest happened after I banged my head. When I’m in pain, I don’t think straight. I’m all reaction, filterless. The monstrous talking ginger tabby challenged me. You know how I got detention in seventh grade because I couldn’t pass up the dare to go into the boys’ bathroom before track practice? Well, then how do you expect me to let a challenge from a cat slide right on by?

Wait – more clarification. I banged my head when I fell off the dining room table. See, earlier in the day, I was unloading the dishwasher and noticed how grimy the dining room light fixture’s glass globes were. Listen, my job starts in a week and a half. I can’t leave a dirty house behind. That’s what I was thinking.

Anyway, I stood on the table putting the sparkling clean globes back in place, being extra careful not to drop a screw when the phone rang. As I juggled the glass in my hand the phone shrilled again. Maybe it was someone who wanted to send me on a free cruise if I’d answer three questions about how much I hate government. I stepped back to climb down from the table and tripped over the two gray cats supervising me.

The space between the tabletop and the floor was interminable. I am terrified of heights. We went to the top of the Sears Tower when Nate and Chloe were little and I was pregnant with Sophie. It was actually the day we got our gateway cat Daisy at the Chicago Humane Society. The fact that I even agreed to go to the top of the Tower amazes me still. While my adventurous children leaned over the railing to put their foreheads on the glass, I held on to the backs of their shirts until my palm sweat left marks. I felt faint. My heart palpitated. All I wanted to do was run into the elevator and press myself against the back wall.

So then my head connected with the dining room wall. The glass globe remained intact and in my hand. I knew this because the ginger tabby opened his mouth and announced that my fall was spectacular. I didn’t realize he knew that word. I started to tell  him how impressed I was with his vocabulary when it occurred to me that this cat was talking.

“But you’re a cat!”

He rolled his golden eyes and yawned, his disinterest palpable. “I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry.”

This cat wants to read Living Arrangements by Laura Walter.

I don’t remember what happened to trigger the cat food eating contest, but I’m pretty sure the youngest cat, the one who can break your heart with just a look, was involved. An apparent set up, in hindsight. Three of the five cats contested my win. Accusations purred forth.

This was personal for the ginger tabby. He wanted me to know he was still angry about the last time I gave him a haircut and all the other cats laughed at him. As if their bad behavior is my fault.

I was having none of it. My head throbbed and the cat food aftertaste made me feel queasy. “Just wait, buddy, your next haircut is going to be a doozy.”

Never have I heard a voice so cold as his when he said, “We’ll see about that.” His good ear twitched menacingly.

I woke up under a multitude of boxes. My hands were bound together with something that looked like silver twine. As best I could, I searched my pockets. The cats had evidently relieved me of my phone. There was a smell – was that incense? New shoes? No, that was one of the shoeboxes next to my head. Vicks Vap-o-Rub?

I touched my mouth. Tape. I braced myself and pulled the tape away from my lips. Damn. Those hairs would grow back in darker and thicker. I picked one of those silicon packets out of my hair and cried for help, the corners of my mouth still smarting from yanking off the tape. I struggled to get out from under the boxes, but something didn’t work right. I shifted around to see what the problem was. My shoes were on the wrong feet and worse, my ankles were duct taped together.

What day was it? How long had I been under this mess? Where was I? The day I fell off the table was maybe Wednesday. Or was it Thursday?

I cried again for help, but no one answered. Where was everyone? My cellphone rang and there was a muffled sound of voices punctuated by meows and growls, but I couldn’t identify where my phone was.

I must have fallen asleep again from exhaustion. The basement door that leads into the garage door opened and closed.  “I don’t know where she is. She said she was going to be a Rick Santorum groupie, but I thought she was joking. But when I got home, she was nowhere to be found. She’s been gone for three days and no word. She’s not answering her phone either.”

“MathMan! Honey! I’m here!” I tried to shout, but my voice came out strangled and weak.

“Hang on a second.”

I thrashed around, desperate to get his attention. I tried again to shout.

“There’s something under those boxes, Nate. Probably a cat. Go see while I finish this call.”

“Dad, all the cats are here. Look, count them. Five.”

“Then what’s under those boxes?”

“How would I know?”

“Take that broom and poke around. Maybe give it a whack.”

“Okay.”

You’ve heard of how adrenaline can give a person in distress superhuman strength? Yeah, well, not this chick apparently. My whole body felt limp. I stayed still hoping that Nate would have the good sense to move the boxes instead of giving them a whack. Or six.

When he got about three layers of boxes into the pile, Nate finally pulled an Ebay box back and stared at me.

“Dad?”

“Hang on. What?”

“I found Mom, but….”

I gulped in the fresh air.

MathMan stood next to Nate and peered at me. “Lisa? Are you okay?”

Did I look okay?

Nate leaned in closer. “Mom, where’s your hair?”

Your turn. Tell us a story, y’all.

The one where the cats win

It’s funny the thoughts that pass through your mind while you’re awaiting rescue.

I don’t know how I got under the pile of boxes in the basement, but I do know this: we do not need to save another box. For anything.

The last thing I remember was dialing the phone and leaving MathMan a voicemail that I was having second thoughts about everything in life. That I’d decided that the best way to find my purpose was to become a Rick Santorum groupie.

That may have happened as a result of the cat food eating contest I got into with the monstrous ginger tabby. Oh, I won, but who knows what those cats spiked my food with. You know how cats are. Especially in groups.

I’m getting ahead of myself. The contest happened after I banged my head. When I’m in pain, I don’t think straight. I’m all reaction, filterless. The monstrous talking ginger tabby challenged me. You know how I got detention in seventh grade because I couldn’t pass up the dare to go into the boys’ bathroom before track practice? Well, then how do you expect me to let a challenge from a cat slide right on by?

Wait – more clarification. I banged my head when I fell off the dining room table. See, earlier in the day, I was unloading the dishwasher and noticed how grimy the dining room light fixture’s glass globes were. Listen, my job starts in a week and a half. I can’t leave a dirty house behind. That’s what I was thinking.

Anyway, I stood on the table putting the sparkling clean globes back in place, being extra careful not to drop a screw when the phone rang. As I juggled the glass in my hand the phone shrilled again. Maybe it was someone who wanted to send me on a free cruise if I’d answer three questions about how much I hate government. I stepped back to climb down from the table and tripped over the two gray cats supervising me.

The space between the tabletop and the floor was interminable. I am terrified of heights. We went to the top of the Sears Tower when Nate and Chloe were little and I was pregnant with Sophie. It was actually the day we got our gateway cat Daisy at the Chicago Humane Society. The fact that I even agreed to go to the top of the Tower amazes me still. While my adventurous children leaned over the railing to put their foreheads on the glass, I held on to the backs of their shirts until my palm sweat left marks. I felt faint. My heart palpitated. All I wanted to do was run into the elevator and press myself against the back wall.

So then my head connected with the dining room wall. The glass globe remained intact and in my hand. I knew this because the ginger tabby opened his mouth and announced that my fall was spectacular. I didn’t realize he knew that word. I started to tell  him how impressed I was with his vocabulary when it occurred to me that this cat was talking.

“But you’re a cat!”

He rolled his golden eyes and yawned, his disinterest palpable. “I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry.”

This cat wants to read Living Arrangements by Laura Walter.

I don’t remember what happened to trigger the cat food eating contest, but I’m pretty sure the youngest cat, the one who can break your heart with just a look, was involved. An apparent set up, in hindsight. Three of the five cats contested my win. Accusations purred forth.

This was personal for the ginger tabby. He wanted me to know he was still angry about the last time I gave him a haircut and all the other cats laughed at him. As if their bad behavior is my fault.

I was having none of it. My head throbbed and the cat food aftertaste made me feel queasy. “Just wait, buddy, your next haircut is going to be a doozy.”

Never have I heard a voice so cold as his when he said, “We’ll see about that.” His good ear twitched menacingly.

I woke up under a multitude of boxes. My hands were bound together with something that looked like silver twine. As best I could, I searched my pockets. The cats had evidently relieved me of my phone. There was a smell – was that incense? New shoes? No, that was one of the shoeboxes next to my head. Vicks Vap-o-Rub?

I touched my mouth. Tape. I braced myself and pulled the tape away from my lips. Damn. Those hairs would grow back in darker and thicker. I picked one of those silicon packets out of my hair and cried for help, the corners of my mouth still smarting from yanking off the tape. I struggled to get out from under the boxes, but something didn’t work right. I shifted around to see what the problem was. My shoes were on the wrong feet and worse, my ankles were duct taped together.

What day was it? How long had I been under this mess? Where was I? The day I fell off the table was maybe Wednesday. Or was it Thursday?

I cried again for help, but no one answered. Where was everyone? My cellphone rang and there was a muffled sound of voices punctuated by meows and growls, but I couldn’t identify where my phone was.

I must have fallen asleep again from exhaustion. I was awakened by the sound of a door opening and closing. “I don’t know where she is. She said she was going to be a Rick Santorum groupie, but I thought she was joking. But when I got home, she was nowhere to be found. She’s been gone for three days and no word. She’s not answering her phone either.”

“MathMan! Honey! I’m here!” I tried to shout, but my voice came out strangled and weak.

“Hang on a second.”

I thrashed around, desperate to get his attention. I tried again to shout.

“There’s something under those boxes, Nate. Probably a cat. Go see while I finish this call.”

“Dad, all the cats are here. Look, count them. Five.”

“Then what’s under those boxes?”

“How would I know?”

“Take that broom and poke around. Maybe give it a whack.”

“Okay.”

You’ve heard of how adrenaline can give a person in distress superhuman strength? Yeah, well, not this chick apparently. My whole body felt limp. I stayed still hoping that Nate would have the good sense to move the boxes instead of giving them a whack. Or six.

When he got about three layers of boxes into the pile, Nate finally pulled an Ebay box back and stared at me.

“Dad?”

“Hang on. What?”

“I found Mom, but….”

I gulped in the fresh air.

MathMan stood next to Nate and peered at me. “Lisa? Are you okay?”

Did I look okay?

Nate leaned in closer. “Mom, where’s your hair?”

Your turn. Tell us a story, y’all.

Hey, watch where you stick that thing

Why am I happy about the current focus on social issues? Doesn’t this kind of thing usually send me over the edge trailing a stream of curse words behind me?

I’ve been thinking about what happened last week with the all male testimony to the Congressional committee and the GOP’s reaction to the contraception provisions in the Health Care Reform Bill and how that, combined with the Komen debacle and the rise of Rick Santorum as a serious potential Republican nominee. It’s interesting how all of these things coming together have shed a bright light on something that hasn’t received nearly as much scrutiny as it should have.

Republicans have been running a systematic campaign to repeal, reduce and revise reproductive rights, particularly in regard to women. Yikes! Like many of our state legislatures, that’s R overload.

It’s not just one thing, it’s many things. We’d be wrong to ignore a trend, a death by a thousand cuts.

Geoffrey has some marvelous ideas to help protect the Y contributor. Includes Oedipal Balls and the Sack of the Future.

Averil illustrates what it feels like to be a woman in this unhinged world. 


Jim H. puts President Santorum on the psychotherapist’s couch.


How far will they go?

It starts with a v and ends with an a.  I mean, what’s the big deal anyway?

They’re not done either. 

Thankfully, women are learning to fight back.

And finally, “If Rod Serling were alive today, he’d write a Twilight Zone episode in which all the Religious Right zealots wake up pregnant in a world run by fundamentalist women.”  – Dan, a Facebook friend of Jayne, a fabulous writer (she’s got TV credits and is published!)

What has your attention? And where do you  plan to put that?

Is this an instrument of communication or torture?

Source

Before I became interested in watching IU basketball, I had the good sense to stay out of the room or at least occupy myself with other activities while MathMan sat glued to the television during sporting events. I cannot tell you the number of White Sox baseball games I’ve ironed through.

In fact, if you were to do a little window peeping while I do domestic duties while MathMan watched sports, you’d think you were looking at Ward and June Cleaver. If Ward and June got handsy with each other in front of Wally and the Beaver and seasoned their conversation with the occasional utterance of the word fuck.

Anyway, MathMan forgot that it’s best to make oneself scarce while one’s spouse is indulging in a bit of televised pleasure. And thus, that is how I ended up taking notes during the last episode of Season 2 of Downton Abbey. I’m hooked. MathMan was lukewarm, tepid, sorry he’d agreed to let me watch the program in the bedroom where he normally cloisters himself to watch whatever he wants on Sunday nights.

Disclaimer #1 Possible spoilers for the Christmas special aired on Sunday, February 19, 2012 so please don’t read unless you want to risk it.

Disclaimer #2 Despite his use of the pejorative puss, MathMan is a relatively evolved man. I mean, it took me only two days to get him to understand the value of putting down the toilet seat. Besides that, I do believe he was sending me subliminal signals. Either he wanted to get some or he thought I should feed the cats. 

MM: I like her, too.
Me: Daisy, the maid? She’s cute, isn’t she?
MM: Yeah. She cleans, too.

MM: Who gets the ruby in the Christmas pudding? (Remark based on Hercule Poirot’s The Theft of the Royal Ruby)

MM:  He’s a douchebag. A huge douchebag. And the other guy’s a puss.

MM: So what? Does Maggie Smith have a contract so that she’s in everything made in England?

MM:  I think someone is going to punch him before it’s over. (re: Sir Richard)

MM:  What are you doing?
Me: Taking notes of your commentary.
MM:  Oh, I see how it is.
Me: I don’t think you do.

MM:  What’s the point of watching this if it’s going to be so predictable?

MM:  Which Sybil is pregnant? One, two, three, four, five or seven?

MM:  Is the stuffy guy (Sir Richard)  her fiance?
Me:  Yes.
MM: That’s a dumbass move.

MM: Someone’s going to get shot for sure.

MM:  She’s not going to marry that clown.

MM:  Wasn’t he part of some Monty Python skit?

MM:  I feel like this is an episode of Poirot without the murder. You know which one I’m talking about.
Me: The Mystery of Hunter’s Lodge
MM:  I guess. Yeah, that’s the one.

MM:  The only drama is if the pretty woman marries the dumbass.

MM:  Wasn’t that on the Young Ones? Sir Something Old Fart? What was that? That’s who Sir Richard is.

Me: Sir Boring Old Fart

MM:  That’s it!

MM: He shouldn’t have given her that dumb pussy speech in the graveyard because now he’s feeling bad because now she’s going to marry that dumbass.

MM:  (regarding Matthew) Now he’s going to get in trouble with his mom.

Me:  For letting Mary go?

MM:  No. For being a puss.

Lady Mary:  It shall be hard.
MM:  It’s not hard. It’s easy. Just say,”Shut up and piss off.”

MM:  Here’s where he gets punched in the face.

MM:  (Re: Matthew) ‘Cause he’s going to get a punch in the face if he acts like a pussy again.

There’s definitely a theme here. Let’s unpack it, shall we? No, nevermind. I’m not qualified to delve that deeply into anyone’s mind. The funny thing is, he’s not a violent man so I don’t know why he’s so hellbent on predicting violence. It’s obvious that he has little patience for melodrama and emotional games. I’m not surprised, of course, because he lives with me. Watching it on TV is a busman’s holiday.

When I mentioned I thought there was time for them to declare Mr. Bates innocent, MathMan rolled his eyes. “They’re going to leave you hanging on that one.”

When the show ended without wrapping the Bates storyline, I whined. “Wah! I’ve got to wait months to know what happens to Mr. Bates. They have to tell us how Mrs. Bates really died. Was it murder or suicide?”

MathMan simply shook his head.

“But don’t you want to know what happens?”

“I want to know if that guy’s going to stop being a puss.”

Oh, he’s hooked.

What do you watch on TV as a compromise? What about Mrs. Bates? Murder or suicide? Who did it? What’s going to get in the way of Mary and Matthew’s wedding? Have we seen the last of the guy who claimed to be Patrick who allegedly drowned in the sinking of the Titanic? Will the Dowager Countess embrace the Jazz Age? Will Thomas and O’Brien ever stop scheming?

Is this an instrument of communication or torture?

Source

Before I became interested in watching IU basketball, I had the good sense to stay out of the room or at least occupy myself with other activities while MathMan sat glued to the television during sporting events. I cannot tell you the number of White Sox baseball games I’ve ironed through.

In fact, if you were to do a little window peeping while I do domestic duties while MathMan watched sports, you’d think you were looking at Ward and June Cleaver. If Ward and June got handsy with each other in front of Wally and the Beaver and seasoned their conversation with the occasional utterance of the word fuck.

Anyway, MathMan forgot that it’s best to make oneself scarce while one’s spouse is indulging in a bit of televised pleasure. And thus, that is how I ended up taking notes during the last episode of Season 2 of Downton Abbey. I’m hooked. MathMan was lukewarm, tepid, sorry he’d agreed to let me watch the program in the bedroom where he normally cloisters himself to watch whatever he wants on Sunday nights.

Disclaimer #1 Possible spoilers for the Christmas special aired on Sunday, February 19, 2012 so please don’t read unless you want to risk it.


Disclaimer #2 Despite his use of the pejorative puss, MathMan is a relatively evolved man. I mean, it took me only two days to get him to understand the value of putting down the toilet seat. Besides that, I do believe he was sending me subliminal signals. Either he wanted to get some or he thought I should feed the cats. 

MM: I like her, too.
Me: Daisy, the maid? She’s cute, isn’t she?
MM: Yeah. She cleans, too.

MM: Who gets the ruby in the Christmas pudding? (Remark based on Hercule Poirot’s The Theft of the Royal Ruby)

MM:  He’s a douchebag. A huge douchebag. And the other guy’s a puss.

MM: So what? Does Maggie Smith have a contract so that she’s in everything made in England?

MM:  I think someone is going to punch him before it’s over. (re: Sir Richard)

MM:  What are you doing?
Me: Taking notes of your commentary.
MM:  Oh, I see how it is.
Me: I don’t think you do.

MM:  What’s the point of watching this if it’s going to be so predictable?

MM:  Which Sybil is pregnant? One, two, three, four, five or seven?

MM:  Is the stuffy guy (Sir Richard)  her fiance?
Me:  Yes.
MM: That’s a dumbass move.

MM: Someone’s going to get shot for sure.

MM:  She’s not going to marry that clown.

MM:  Wasn’t he part of some Monty Python skit?

MM:  I feel like this is an episode of Poirot without the murder. You know which one I’m talking about.
Me: The Mystery of Hunter’s Lodge
MM:  I guess. Yeah, that’s the one.

MM:  The only drama is if the pretty woman marries the dumbass.

MM:  Wasn’t that on the Young Ones? Sir Something Old Fart? What was that? That’s who Sir Richard is.
Me: Sir Boring Old Fart
MM:  That’s it!

MM: He shouldn’t have given her that dumb pussy speech in the graveyard because now he’s feeling bad because now she’s going to marry that dumbass.

MM:  (regarding Matthew) Now he’s going to get in trouble with his mom.
Me:  For letting Mary go?
MM:  No. For being a puss.

Lady Mary:  It shall be hard.
MM:  It’s not hard. It’s easy. Just say,”Shut up and piss off.”

MM:  Here’s where he gets punched in the face.

MM:  (Re: Matthew) ‘Cause he’s going to get a punch in the face if he acts like a pussy again.

There’s definitely a theme here. Let’s unpack it, shall we? No, nevermind. I’m not qualified to delve that deeply into anyone’s mind. The funny thing is, he’s not a violent man so I don’t know why he’s so hellbent on predicting violence. It’s obvious that he has little patience for melodrama and emotional games. I’m not surprised, of course, because he lives with me. Watching it on TV is a busman’s holiday.

When I mentioned I thought there was time for them to declare Mr. Bates innocent, MathMan rolled his eyes. “They’re going to leave you hanging on that one.”

When the show ended without wrapping the Bates storyline, I whined. “Wah! I’ve got to wait months to know what happens to Mr. Bates. They have to tell us how Mrs. Bates really died. Was it murder or suicide?”

MathMan simply shook his head.

“But don’t you want to know what happens?”

“I want to know if that guy’s going to stop being a puss.”

Oh, he’s hooked.

What do you watch on TV as a compromise? What about Mrs. Bates? Murder or suicide? Who did it? What’s going to get in the way of Mary and Matthew’s wedding? Have we seen the last of the guy who claimed to be Patrick who allegedly drowned in the sinking of the Titanic? Will the Dowager Countess embrace the Jazz Age? Will Thomas and O’Brien ever stop scheming?

This is the day when things fall into place

A brief story about the power of social media. Or maybe the value of connecting, reconnecting. Who you know. The ending of one chapter, the beginning of another. A shift of gears. A new day. A move from a red square to a black one. Is it the Phoenix or the egg?

I’m stalling.

See, the thing is, I reconnected with a friend, a former colleague on Facebook. This friend knew that I was out of work and suggested I apply for a position with his employer. And so I did. And. And….

I got the job. I mean – I got the job!!! (Throws confetti into the air, runs around in circles making incoherent noises. Halts, realizes that she’s going to have to clean up the confetti, shrugs and resumes pandemonium.)

And it’s not just a job. It is a position I really, really wanted.

I start in a couple of weeks.

After being out of work for two years and two months (you bet I’ve kept count), I’d pretty much given up. My friend’s timing was perfect. Having him as an internal reference surely helped. Without his connection, I may have been overlooked for this position because of my old job titles, but during the interview process it became clear that my best skills were well-suited for this position.

In other words, I’m beside myself with joy and gratitude for my friend who knows from experience what a toll long-term unemployment takes on a person.

Thanks to all of you for the support, kind words and patience as I’ve struggled to hold on to the belief that things would turn around. There were many days when this blog felt like the only thing I’d accomplished, if you could call it an accomplishment.

When it comes down to it, I’m here because you’re here.

Thank you, all of you, for being here.

This is the day when things fall into place

A brief story about the power of social media. Or maybe the value of connecting, reconnecting. Who you know. The ending of one chapter, the beginning of another. A shift of gears. A new day. A move from a red square to a black one. Is it the Phoenix or the egg?

I’m stalling.

See, the thing is, I reconnected with a friend, a former colleague on Facebook. This friend knew that I was out of work and suggested I apply for a position with his employer. And so I did. And. And….

I got the job. I mean – I got the job!!! (Throws confetti into the air, runs around in circles making incoherent noises. Halts, realizes that she’s going to have to clean up the confetti, shrugs and resumes pandemonium.)

And it’s not just a job. It is a position I really, really wanted.

I start in a couple of weeks.

After being out of work for two years and two months (you bet I’ve kept count), I’d pretty much given up. My friend’s timing was perfect. Having him as an internal reference surely helped. Without his connection, I may have been overlooked for this position because of my old job titles, but during the interview process it became clear that my best skills were well-suited for this position.

In other words, I’m beside myself with joy and gratitude for my friend who knows from experience what a toll long-term unemployment takes on a person.

Thanks to all of you for the support, kind words and patience as I’ve struggled to hold on to the belief that things would turn around. There were many days when this blog felt like the only thing I’d accomplished, if you could call it an accomplishment.

When it comes down to it, I’m here because you’re here.

Thank you, all of you, for being here.

The tiger dreams only of death

In a newish house far from Paris
Partially covered with vines
Lived five related people
Completely out of line.

Completely out of line
They broke their double fiber whole wheat bread
Brushed their teeth (with free toothpaste yay coupons!)
And went to bed. (Mom and Dad wrestling over the comforter, son with his phone, daughter with Netflix, other daughter away at college, alone. We hope.)

Oh screw that. You’ll like this better anyway.

Werner Herzog reads Madeline

I’m asking pointed questions about contraception over at PoliTits. Pointed like a knitting needle. Come join the fun.

P.S. Something for the Downton Abbey fans among us.

P.S.S. What you want is an Adult Education.  Or dreams. Dreams are good.

The tiger dreams only of death

In a newish house far from Paris
Partially covered with vines
Lived five related people
Completely out of line.

Completely out of line
They broke their double fiber whole wheat bread
Brushed their teeth (with free toothpaste yay coupons!)
And went to bed. (Mom and Dad wrestling over the comforter, son with his phone, daughter with Netflix, other daughter away at college, alone. We hope.)

Oh screw that. You’ll like this better anyway.

I’m asking pointed questions about contraception over at PoliTits. Pointed like a knitting needle. Come join the fun.

P.S. Something for the Downton Abbey fans among us.

P.S.S. What you want is an Adult Education.  Or dreams. Dreams are good.

Thought she was James Dean for a day

Lipstick. Some things never change.

When last we met, I’d solicited suggestions for blog subjects. Many of you offered ideas for which I am grateful, but clearly not grateful enough to blog over the weekend. The truth is that I was otherwise engaged taking Sophie and her friends to see one of their teachers participate in the Polar Plunge which raised money for our local Advocates for Children. We had a great time despite freezing off our gnocchis.

We went for lunch then got our blood flowing by running relay races through the aisles of a (thankfully) nearly deserted Staples. They finally shooed us out of there when one of the girls tried to fit herself into a filing cabinet drawer. It’s a shame, really, I think she would have fit.

I spent the rest of the weekend thawing out, writing apologies and getting on Mathman’s nerves.

But now I’m here and you’re here and I have a topic suggested by my friend Bill whom you really must visit at his eclectic blog. Bill is one of those multi-talented people you want to hate because they do everything well, but you can’t because they’re so danged nice. He writes, builds furniture, paints, is into photography, long walks on the beach…. no wait – he’s happily married. I don’t need to write his Match.com profile.

Thank you, Bill, for the idea. A 500 word essay on If I Were a Guy.

I’ve often said that one of the things I like about having Nate as my son is that he gives me a glimpse of what I would be like as a male. The two of us are alike and in other ways which may or may not overlap, Nathan reminds me of my brother. So much so that sometimes I do that Mom thing where I accidentally call Nathan by my brother’s name.

How would I be as a male? I’d probably be less cautious than I am as a female because society tells boys that risk is good. I’d be more outspoken (believe it), more eager to push to the front of the line, more ready to deal with confrontation, more confident in my athletic abilities, more competitive, less concerned with what people think of me.

Not all of that is true, of course, because boys suffer their own forms of doubt, fear, rejection, social anxieties, pecking order confusion, and angst. But it’s nice to think that some part of our species escapes the torture of not knowing who they are, why they’re here and never being satisfied with where they are. Perhaps I’d be better at hiding it.

If I were a guy, I’d learn to dance. Play guitar. I’d write the songs that make the young girls sing and take off their dresses. I’d hold open doors, be gentle with animals, read  Norman Mailer and Jane Austen. I’d learn to cook and clean, but manipulate my way out of having to do either. I’d build up my female friends because they have a harder time of it in this male-dominated world no matter how many barriers they bust down.

I’d write my name in the snow.

If I were a guy, I’d go outside to wait for the woman who let her dog shit on our lawn just now. She’ll walk by again and I’d ask her to pick up that fucking dog shit. Except I wouldn’t say fucking because I’m not that kind of a guy. I’d hand her a plastic bag so she’d have no excuse for not cleaning up her Bassett Hound’s load.

If I were a guy, I’d pick up the tab and remember important dates and do all the things women are supposed to do, but I don’t so can I assume I would if I were the opposite of me?

I wouldn’t grunt when I lift weights, wouldn’t cat call or wolf whistle or bellow like a moose when playing XBox. I’d keep my fingernails clean, but never have a manicure. I’d never wear a Speedo or any other kind of banana hammock. I’d have pubes like a 1970s porn star, but no facial hair. I’d have my back hair removed. I’d wear boxers, but never let them show over my pants. I’d always have one suit and a pair of dress shoes that fit me. Just in case.

But first, and this is important to note because I’ve done some serious research on this issue, you’d have to wait for me to leave the room where I’d be standing in front of a mirror staring at my schlong just because it’s there.

What would you do if you were the opposite sex?

P.S. Another blog post here.