Last Sunday I celebrated my first Mother’s Day as a single mom or, more accurately, a widow (God, I hate that word) with two kids, and I have to tell you, it was weird. My sons’ cards were sweet, but I missed the suggestive* ones Stu used to send me. Yeah, yeah, I always bitched they weren’t romantic enough, but hell, they were hot. Wait, let me rephrase that. They made me feel hot. Young. Desirable. Last Sunday, I didn’t feel hot, unless the sweaty pits, palms, and back-of-the-neck-wreck-my-blow-dry schvitz I got walking around, looking at the crap in Kohl’s while the boys saw a movie counts. And, please God, tell me it doesn’t.
Instead I felt old. Tired. Angry at the stupid, fluffy girl stuff I was surrounded by. And surprised. I mean I like stupid, fluffy girl stuff.
My God, I thought, there’s something wrong with me. I’m not into shopping. I’m into car shit. That’s right. I actually caught myself fantasizing about getting Case and Cuy home, and spending the rest of the day cleaning the Durango and Mustang. After all, that’s how I spent the morning.
Hmm. Maybe Father’s Day is more my holiday.
It wouldn’t surprise me. In the past month I’ve learned several manly things. For starters, I now know how to jump start and slow charge a car battery, check and replace the oil, coolant, and a couple of other liquids that, yeah, ok, I’ve forgotten the names of but I can replace them. Really, I can. I’ve also discovered why the car manual is more important (ok, almost as important) as the new issue of More, and how having an extra pair of reading glasses in the glove compartment makes the whole “Suzy, the Intrepid Auto Mechanic!” business a bit easier.
In addition to engine maintenance, I’ve learned that rain is God’s way of saying, “Get out there and wipe down the Mustang, missy; your husband’s apoplectic at the pollen covering his favorite convertible!” and that wiping down the car can very quickly become cleaning the car, which even more quickly can become waxing the car which quicker than quick gets one wondering, “What in hell is happening to my testosterone level?”
And that’s not something I’ve wondered just once.
As it turns out, the black dots I discovered on my chest are not, thank Heaven, hair sprouting in response to my new hobbies, but rather two ticks I picked up in the throes of detail duty. Scary, I know. I mean, a woman with chest hair? What happens if it doesn’t match my mustache?
Maybe Father’s Day isn’t my holiday, but hell, I’m going to give it a try. Break out the bucket and the big sponges, boys. Father’s Day’s coming, and Papa wants her wheels clean!
*Suggestive is putting it mildly. They were more like, “To My Wife. I love you. Now let’s do it ’til the kids complain we haven’t fed them in four days!” Love, Stu xoxo