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Charlie Hatton
Watertown, MA
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Well, shit. I've tried to start three different posts today, and they all went a big fat bunch of nowhere. So, you know what -- screw it. It's about time I got back to the roots of this blog, and threw a bunch of unrelated, random, schizophrenic shit at you. So that's what I'm gonna do. Don't expect coherence, folks; as a matter of fact, don't look for any damned sense at all.
(And if you think I'm bluffing, you should know that I also managed to find Monty Python on BBC America, and I'm watching some of that TiVoed goodness right now. Currently playing -- 'Owl-Stretching Time'. Strap in, folks -- this may get a bit silly. Don't say I didn't warn you.)
(And if you say, 'yes, this blog', then you're cut off. Don't be a smartass, dude.)
Anyway, I've just been folding socks, and I'm ready to tie a few together and choke the life right out of myself. Maybe it's because all my socks look almost -- but not quite -- alike. And there are six or seven styles -- some have yellow toes, and others have gray toes, and some are just a little longer... other than my fishnet stockings, I can barely tell any of them apart.
Er, that's my wife's fishnet stockings. Of, um, course. Moving right along.
Matching these socks is like... I don't know, pairing up jumbled-up pictures of centerfold boobs cut out from a Playboy, or something. Only without all the magic and involuntary ecstatic shivering.
(Hey, come to think of it, that would be a pretty fun game. Just snip out a bunch of lefties and righties, and mix them together, and then try to figure out which ones go with which. Cool! Wow, I'm glad I thought of that! Next time it's time to fold socks, I'm doin' that instead! Laundry just got sexy! Woo hoo!)
I remember asking my dad about it one day, back when I was a kid:
Me: Um, Dad -- you were one of eleven, right?
Dad: Yep, that's right.
Me: So... we're what, Catholic, then?
Dad: No, son. We're not Catholic.
Me: Part rabbit, maybe? Like, we got bunny DNA in our systems from some horrible farming accident, or by sitting on the wrong toilet seat?
Dad: Um... no.
Me: You're not saying... grandpa was a 'bunny lover', are you? I mean, cows, sure, with the udders and the fuzzies and the moo-ing... but rabbits?
Dad: No! Look, son, we're not 'part rabbit'. Let it go.
Me: But... but... eleven kids? Dude! What's up with that?
Dad: Well, it happens, you know?
Me: Dad, I'm twelve. I know what happens. I even know how it happens. But there's nothing in my short life experience that indicates how it could happen eleven fricking times, man. That's crazy.
Dad: Well, times were a bit different then. I think they were sort of... you know, bored.
Me: Bored? Shit, Dad -- bored is one thing, but eleven kids? Christ, couldn't they have read a book, or taken a damned walk, or -- I dunno -- played some freaking Nintendo, or something?
Dad: Son, there was no Nintendo back then.
Me: Well, Christ, there should have been. Eleven kids... shit! Let the woman rest, for goodness' sakes.
Dad: Riiiight. Not to change the subject, son, but you're adopted. You know that, right?
Yeah, Dad always was a kidder. And I've always been told it's just a coincidence that I have the mailman's high cheekbones.
Still, eleven children has got to be a pain in the ass to put up with. And the younger ones, like Dad, have it tough, too -- it's like having five or six parents, with all the older kids telling you what to do, or sending you to bed, or making you run errands. It's gotta be like being a gofer in a sweatshop or something. No wonder Dad's a little wonky sometimes.
(Well, okay, not one of those 'dress-up adult' parties, like in Eyes Wide Shut, or anything like that. We didn't put on costumes, or lingerie, or oversized puppet heads and get all 'adult' on each other. Stay in my world here, all right? I mean, I'm with you -- those kinds of parties would be much cooler, but that's not what happened. Let's not get ourselves all lubed up unnecessarily, 'k?
Well, maybe just a little... mmmmm... oversized puppet heads... yeah, baby!)
Anyway, I had to come home and put on a suit for this little soiree. It was some holiday shindig or other thrown by the law firm my wife works for. So, yeah -- four hours in a monkey suit, surrounded by lawyers and listening to Christmas carols -- that's pretty much the third circle of Hell right there. But there was free booze, and nobody knew who the hell I was, so it really wasn't all that bad.
But what I kept thinking to myself was this: what the hell do women do with their hands at parties like these? I mean, it's a big company thing, so everybody's a little nervous. Throw in dozens of overdressed uppity bastards and pompous stuffed shirts, and everyone's gonna be a bit antsy. It's perfectly natural.
And this is one of those areas where guys have it much easier than women. Because when you get nervous, you start fidgeting, and wondering what to do with your hands. And men's suits have pockets, which is a damned life saver. I spent all night last night putting my hands in, and taking them out, and putting things in there, and taking things out -- I did the 'Pants Pocket Hokey Pokey' the entire time I was standing up. And it saved my ass -- otherwise, I'd have been clasping my damned hands, and unclasping them, and folding my arms, and unfolding, and putting my hands on my hips, or other people's hips, or heads, or boobs, or god knows where else. The pockets keep the little guys out of trouble.
(No, not those little guys. The zipper keeps those little guys out of trouble. Amazing how many helpful accessories a pair of pants can have, isn't it?)
But the women don't have the same advantage -- their hands are out there, just flapping around, with no container or anything to put them in when they're not in use. You'd think some designer would have come up with a holster or something for dresses, so they'd be on a level playing field. But no. I simply don't see how they manage. My hands would have strangled me by now, if left to their own devices like that. A long time ago. No doubt.
| Comments (3)
"what the hell do women do with their hands at parties like these?"
Hold a drink, of course. Preferably one in each hand. No, seriously though. Holding a drink (even a coke or, if necessary, an empty glass) is a good way to go. If you feel you need to involve the other hand, there's always hors d'ouevres. Or the empty cocktail napkin.
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I have never, ever thought about what women do with their hands. On the one hand, insightful, on the other...are you trying for a spot on Queer Eye? How...ummmm...thoughtful. But, really, lol.