Oh yeah, he's working the yard: The Spanky Boy

I’ve been at this computer for months now, plugging away at writing interesting, topical articles, which no one buys or publishes. Be that as it may, it has given me an opportunity to sit near the window at the back of the house and watch the neighbors’ lawn guy. Although I don’t fit the profile of a stalker I think perhaps I may have become an amateur voyeur. Amateur’s wrong; I’m really good at it.

So I’m perched at my keyboard, legs dangling, because no one really makes a chair which comfortably fits a 5 foot tall adult woman. I’m typing my little heart and soul into an article when out of the corner of my eye I see someone walking across our backyard. Not afraid of Satan carrying a machete, I barge out of the back door to see who it is that’s just violated my territory. (There’s a joke there and you all thought I was going for didn’t you?)

In my elderly neighbors’ yard, clad only in beige cargo shorts, a blue bandana, work boots and a smile is the lawn guy. A total Spanky Boy. Let me give you the definition of Spanky Boy. (For those of you out of the perverted loop of my world)

This will come as a total shock to men but much like them, we too have men that we would never consider marriage material or even boyfriend material. These are gorgeous, generally unemployed artists, musicians, etc. who have been given the God given gift of just being nice for us to look at. It’s not going to last, no one is going to get their little feelings hurt. It just is what it is. They’re pretty and well.. do the math.

*I am in no way implying that this behavior is acceptable or that I would participate in, or encourage others to participation in such relationships, but if you are this one needs to go onto your list of candidates. *

Because the sweet baby Jesus loves me, he has allowed this Grecian like statue of a man to work sans shirt in the summer heat. If he’d not been so damned tan, I’d have sworn this bod had been carved of marble. Perhaps it was the heat but holy friggin moly – this guy’s hot.

In his thirties, he’s tall and dark with dark hair. He has that rebellious “I don’t need a stinking desk job” look in his eyes. The ladies know exactly what I’m talking about. He’s the kind of man who’s able to write you and poem and overhaul your engine all in day. Oh yeah, now they’re laughing along with me.

You all know the guy. He doesn’t own a comb. Who needs one when you’re able to run your fingers through that tousled hair and it looks Fab. The clothes, although clean have not seen an iron since they left the store in which they were purchased. The smile however, is Colgate bright and just a little too lingering. He’s no fool. And I’d roll my 401K right over into his name if there is not at least one guitar in his home and two bongs. I know I’m right. It’s a safe bet for me. Still, we see the attraction.

At some point in every woman’s life you tire of the “suits”. On the surface they appear wrinkle free, properly creased, and the corporate world is, on some levels, exciting and powerful- to some. Then, there’s the Spanky Boy. It’s a must that you date at least one of these in your life. It’s a right of passage.


I’ve since come to find out that he has a very successful lawn care business in this area and is very well respected. Blah…blah….blah…. I don’t need a resume; I’m just looking out of the window.

August 16, 2007- I don't feel like renovating anything and I'm a little pissed at the world.

Well the job hunt is still in full force and the results continue to be less than pathetic. As a result I seem to have just stopped doing any cool renovations even as I step over the materials lying around the house. I appear to be experiencing some sort of juvenile reaction to being unemployed, as if to say to the world "if I can't do what I want, I'm doing nothing".

So with plenty of time on my hands, I sat on the patio early this morning having coffee. Watching cars going by; their drivers obviously employed, I had the most horrible, petty, bitchy, little thought of which I should be ashamed.

I actually said out loud "you know, some of those people look really stupid and they have jobs".
Yep, I went there! I said it and now it's out there in the universe and I can't take it back.

Do not get all high and mighty, or act as if you're appalled by my confession. You've all thought it, but you guys want to be nice. I don't play nice. I play fair and I know an idiot when I see one.

I was so pissed off and it was only 6:30 am. I was full of spit and vinegar and the sun wasn't even up. (Yeah I know that spit and vinegar line rolls off the tongue like Shakespeare uh? It's a gift.)

I was really letting it get to me. I started to self talk myself down off the ledge with all of the warm fuzzy phrases that any of us who've been therapized (I know it's not a word) throw at ourselves during desperate times and luckily for you, I've jotted them down in my humble little blog.

You're an incredible woman with so much to offer.
You can make this a learning experience.
Good things come to those who wait.
It'll all work out in the end.
The perfect job is just around the corner.

I'm going to call bullshit on every single one of those, AND if anyone utters them in my presence while I'm still unemployed I will disembowel them with my bare hands. Are we all clear on the rules? Wow, I feel better already.

August 13, 2007- The Simple Life had it been done properly

My best male friend is "J".

We are the original Karen & Jack. We've been stopped in public a million times by people who'll tell us that; as if we have no clue. (I will admit that I'm older than Megan Mullaley only because it does give me dibs on the whole Karen Walker character). I was rockin' that before one single Hollywood writer put down a line of her shtick on paper.

J is Jack on steroids. He's 6'4" with spiky blonde hair and he couldn't have stayed in the closet if you'd have bricked him up inside of one as an infant.

We often said that our real life stories would've made a much better show than The Simple Life because our stories are true. The producers won't need to write one word or stage one scene. We just need a camera crew to film some of what we get into………

We've flown to St. Simon's Island Ga. for a wedding; me, J and our friend Ally. Ally is a God fearing, fine Christian woman who spends a great deal of time praying that the lord will overlook most of what J and I get involved in. We don't mean to be in trouble but when we're together we're mischievous and it's just bad. We're the new age Lucy and Ethel.
The three of us met through our old jobs together and have been totally in love since. Why Ally puts up with us is beyond me but she does, and we love her.

I don't recall the reason, but shortly after we check into our hotel we had to drive to the nearby town of Brunswick to go to one of those "mart" places, K-Mart, Wal-Mart, who the hell cares. Now I don't want to besmirch the fine folks of Brunswick, but it's the arm pit of the world. It also appeared to be the Rebel flag capital of the United States. (Just saying).

As we get out of the car I notice that J has his "man bag". I ask him to leave his purse in the car and he gets his knickers in a wad "because it's not a purse". My sense of survival kicked in and I insist that he leave the man bag in the car. These people weren't playing. From the minute we crossed into their county we were on their radar. We hurry through the "mart" because the town folk are beginning to stare -menacingly. I'm hurrying because I'm worried about how I'll ever get the stench of this place out of a Ralph Lauren blouse.

We manage to make it out of the "mart" unscathed but now must hit the liquor store cause, well, its past breakfast, and we needed something to drown out the memory of Brunswick. They weren't nice to us in there either cause J is gay, and I was wearing a push up bra and eye shadow. Get the women and children off the sidewalks, the sin wagon had pulled into town.
Later that night, with Ally nestled snug in her bed, J and I head off to find a cozy little bar with great atmosphere and a lovely view of the ocean. What we find is a bar with what I believe was supposed to be a band, and a cast of characters whose first jobs had to be as extra's in Deliverance. From the moment we walk in we know we're in the wrong place, but we don't want to appear rude, so we'll have one quick martini and hit the road.

We settle in at the bar and when J orders a martini the bartender looked as if he'd just been struck by lightening. There was an audible gasp in the room. The whole place goes quiet. "Uh, we ain't got no martinis" our bar keep responds in his colloquial southern dialect. J asks "well then what have you got"? "Uh, we got beer". J looks at me –"oh goody, they've got beer". "Lovely then, two beers".

I'm in something yummy, silk and opaque; J is flawless down to his kidskin loafers and there we are trapped in white trash hell. I begin to hear dueling banjo's playing in my mind. I'm kicking J under the bar and he is, through- gritted –teeth, telling me to drink the friggin beer- fast and let's get the hell out of there.

Well the band played FreeBird and the patrons yelled "fag" comments over the speaker system to each other. We were appalled. Had we not been severely running the risk of becoming gator bait before the night was over we'd have both pitched a proverbial hissy. Having decided we'd not wish to appear as the victims on an upcoming 48 hour mystery, we left the bar.

Safely in the car and several miles down the road, we do what any good friends would do - laugh and mock them.

August 6, 2007 - The First Day of First Grade

By now you're all familiar with my referring to my youngest daughter or "heart of love". Cheesy, I know but it's what she calls me and now I call her that as well.

Today was her first day of first grade. We got up really early so we could get the hair just right. The outfit was picked the night before, as she is her mother in training and one must learn these things, even at age 6. Pancakes for breakfast, grabbed the new pink backpack and out the door. Quick stop in the backyard for the obligatory first day of school pic and off we go. I wanted to get her to school with enough time for her to scope out the new classroom and the teacher.

We entered the doorway of the class. I could see her expression change and the body language was shouting at the top of it's lungs with fear. She looked up at me, tears welling in her eyes and said "I don't know where to go".

I knelt down, holding her in my arms tighter than either of us probably realized, whispering to her that it was ok to be afraid. I told her that change is scary and everyone else felt just the way she was feeling. It took every fiber of my being not to grab her and run home. A million years of genetically inherited maternal instinct had kicked into gear.

In a split second I'd been able to rationalize (in my own mind) that it would be just fine if she were home schooled, safe with me. She would never be picked last for a team in gym class. She would never be the one not invited to the birthday party. It wouldn't matter if her clothes were cool or not; if the little boys sneaked notes to her in class because she was the pretty girl. She'd be protected and there would be no cause for tears. I knew what I had to do.

I walked her to her desk. They were the hardest steps I've ever taken. After making sure she was settled in and seeing that she'd spotted several children from last years class, I kissed her and said goodbye.

I don't know which of us did more growing up today.

Disquisition on Renovations - Damn You Gorilla Glue

I've mentioned this product in a previous blog, but because I remain fascinated with it, it has again become the subject of another renovation mishap.

Our house is shingled on the outside, sort of Cape Cod style. Beautiful, if faded, painted light blue and smelling of cedar. Upon discovering a stash of unpainted shingles in the basement, I decide that I will frame the top of the laundry room door with the smaller ones, as the walls are shingled and it will match. I had no doubt this plan was just another in a series of incredibly gifted ideas of mine and it started off wonderfully. They always start wonderfully.

My idea was to Gorilla glue them in place, secure with duct tape until the glue dried then nail them in place, paint them to match the door frame and voila! I had my assembly line set up; glue and tape, glue and tape.
My little heart of love then came into the laundry room to ask me a question. As I turned my head my carefully coifed, quasi-Victoria Beckham bangs got stuck in a glob of the damn glue- from -hell. I rushed into the kitchen and began the removal process.

First I washed the bangs with Dawn detergent. No luck. Now the bangs are soapy and glued together. Then I think "Goof Off", it takes off sticky stuff. Wrong. Nothing worked. Not the washing, not the sticky crap remover, not peanut butter –NOTHING. I even resorted to sugar, thinking it would act as sandpaper and just rip the glue out.

There was no other alternative. I had to cut the glue out. Now any woman who spends a fortune on their fake dyed hair will tell you how heartbreaking this was for me. It was like cutting off my own arm. It's expensive and time consuming to maintain blond/frosted hair when your natural color is several shades darker than coal.

I now look like everyone's worst first grade picture. Bangs chopped squarely over my brow as if I were back in my childhood kitchen, perched on a stool waiting for my mother to "trim it a just bit" for picture day at school. It never worked out the way she'd intended and it didn't fare any better this time.

I have decided not to wallow in pity. Instead I will rock those bangs as if they were the height of fashion and I'm the only woman in this town cool enough to carry them off. If any one is ballsy enough to ask: most people who know me would not mention it out of fear; I will tell them I flew to Paris to have it done. It's tres chic and won't hit the states until the fall fashions are shown.

They'll be insanely jealous and I guarantee at least one of them will rush home and chop her bangs, afraid of not being the first on her block to sport a new trend.