Sunday, March 20, 2011

The Fine Art of Attraction

I've been trying to figure this out for years.  The secret female art of getting what you want when you want it without little or no work whatsoever.

It's all a falsehood.  A bunch of phooey, malarkey, Bologna, crapola, whatever.  I've decided that it really all depends on the dude, the timing, and the set of circumstances. 
The idea came about this morning as I was driving home from chapel at 6:30.  I look awful on Sunday mornings because I don't turn on the lights to avoid waking up Eric. I throw on whatever is next to the bed (usually a couple of days old - inside or out), stick my hair in pig tails, and run out the door (I'm notoriously ten minutes late for everything).  I was driving 75mph through side streets and running red lights to boot.  If I were pulled over, how could I possibly talk an officer out of writing me up a citation?  I couldn't have batted my eyes and smiled because he would have given me a ticket just for the way I smelled. Would I have used the holier than thou, going to chapel, and I couldn't leave the Holy Eucharist by Himself angle?  Geez!  Talk about this Catholic being a wee bit of a hypocrite.

Not too long ago, I dropped off Austynn to junior high as I do every day.  Since he's in "special" special ed class, I drop him off five minutes after school starts.  A teacher's aide walks out, meets him at the car, and escorts him to his first program.  Afterwards, as I do every morning, with a breath of freedom I haul ass out of the parking lot.  I had no idea there was a signal there until the school police officer flashed his lights and pulled me over.  Who knew?!  I've only been dropping the kids off there for years.  Let me tell you, Officer Smith took one look at my last name, calculated how many times my boys have been suspended, and instantly rethought the situation.  He didn't even go back to his squad car.  All he gave me was a warning.  Based on my speed and the way I took that red light, I should have been hand-cuffed and taken off to the pokey.  Nope.  Hence, the Compassion Syndrome.

I'm not just talking about getting out of tickets either.  When our house was being saved from sinking into the Thornton, Colorado abyss (long story in itself, a completely separate blog for a later date), I had to park my car outside this past winter.  I like the cold as long as I don't have to commit too much time in it.  So, when in the morning (not always my particularly favorite time of day), I have to drive my oldest son to school in my crappy, ratty, flannel over-sized sweater jacket thing, sweat pants, t-shirt with holes in it, and slippers, and I have to scrape my windshield, no one can really blame me if I'm upset.  For those of you who don't know me, I tend to be somewhat dramatic (go figure?!). 

One morning, after seeing ice on my windshield and, of course, being ten minutes late, I threw a wee bit of a temper tantrum in the middle of the street.  I embarrassed my 15yr old who promptly got into the car after telling me that the building contractor was sitting in the truck behind our car watching the whole thing.  GOOD GRIEF!

Let the humiliation commence.  I began scraping.  My scraping sucked.  I was in a hurry, all I needed was enough to peek through the corners to get William to his high school ten minutes away and get it done quickly.  I just didn't want Scott, the nice burly construction dude, to get out of his truck, talk to me about the house, and notice that I still had last night's food in my teeth.

"Bri, give me the God damned scraper."

"Huh? What?  Oh, Hi Scott."

"You, heard me.  You're making a mess of things.  Look what you're doing."

And with that I noticed all the squirly circles of ice on my windshield.  Why were guys always right and couldn't they just leave me alone when I looked like shit?

"Really, Scott.  I'm good.  I'll get it.  You don't have to do this."  As I was saying this, I can see William smiling in the car as if to say, "Mom, you planned this whole thing."

"Bullshit.  Give me the scraper." Cold frosty air escaped from Scott's mouth as he laughed under his breath with a lit cigarette dangling out of his mouth.

With my head bent in mock humiliation, I handed him the scraper.  He methodically scraped all the windows causing William and I to be much later than we were originally.  There was no arguing with him though.  He saw my temper tantrum.  I brought it on.  Damsel in Distress Syndrome.

I can go on forever about the cheesy, big hair, throw the bosom in your face women.  Of course they get whatever the want, whenever they want it.  We all know why so let's not waste any more words than what I've spent on them.

And finally, there's the horrifying, I have no idea what the Banshee just said, so go along with it and just give her what she wants before she has a meltdown syndrome. 

These syndromes are usually reserved for our better halves and they're awful.  I don't know about you, but I actually hear the Banshee when she's speaking and I can't stop her.  She comes about once a month, a growly, fierce beast.  I watch Eric's face as she starts and it's almost as if there's a transformation.  From pleasant to confusion to anger to abject terror.  I hate Banshee.  She belongs in Hell and I believe Eric tried to imply that once.  That was a very dark day in our marriage.  Thank goodness she's fleeting.  Unfortunately, she made her appearance yesterday.  Hang on tight, Eric, she'll be gone soon.  In the meantime, could you scratch my back?


Brenda said...

Sometimes it's okay to be a lady and let a man swoop in and take care of something, no matter how much it makes you late. We deserve a little chivalry.

The Banshee's visits are difficult ones. She is an unwelcome guest. However, just like our mothers, she still comes over. (hahaha) I have my "Sybil" moments that send Jason into tailspins of "WTF?". Our guys are still hanging in there! That must mean something good about us, right? Or they are crazier than we are.


Bri Potts said...

Oh my dear, you made me laugh out loud with your comment about the unwelcomed visitor as with your mother! I'm still laughing!! And yes you're right, our men are still with us so there must be something glorious behind the crap we throw at them. I already know Eric is a nut. He married me, didn't he?!