I’m not an electrician

Last night I went out with one of my closest, employed, friends.  Nothing like catching up with a friend whose life is pretty much a 180 from yours, to make you feel like a loser.  Ironically, I sought her out for advice and guidance:  I have been feeling like I am at a crossroads, of sorts, in my life.  So far the last 20 odd years have been basically husband, kids, house.  No complaints there, seriously, I mean I am living a blessed life and I wouldn’t change a thing.  I was lucky enough to be able to stay at home and raise my kids, dabbling in writing here and there (which, if I recall, was supposed to be the point of getting a degree in journalism…to “dabble” in it), with smatterings of PTA and volunteer work…Oh, and there was my brief flirtation with small town politics.  Thank god that didn’t work out.  But with my second child almost out the door to college, and the third one on the brink of high school, I took a look at myself and wondered what would become of me now?  The dream of packing a couple of suitcases and jumping on plane with my husband to travel the world didn’t seem as realistic as I had once thought.  What with that pesky college tuition and all standing in our way.  Plus I would really miss my dog.

So I made the mistake of spending an entire morning, one on which I could have, should have, been catching up television, cruising around on monster.com.   I was rewarded with conclusion that, despite all the “life experiences” and “wisdom”  I’ve managed to accumulate, I am just about on par with a recent college grad.  Minus, of course, the computing skills, and experience with social networking.  (Although I did love that movie, I have to say I agree with Betty White, Facebook looks like a big waste of time.)  Furthermore, if monster.com could lay eyes on me, clearly they would see lots of other minuses, like the roll of fat that hangs over the top of my jeans and the slight loosening of the skin on my neck, and, most disturbingly, what I noticed as I was getting my gray touched up, something I believe are called JOWLS.  Not at all attractive.  So on the off chance that anyone would ever hire me, not only would I require a salary commensurate with my tax bracket, I’d also need a fair amount of dough to keep maintaining my aging body, as I figure I’d be competing with actual college grads.

I came to the further conclusion that I’d probably have a “boss.”  This thought left me feeling about as enthusiastic as going for a pap smear.  Especially because it is likely that any “boss” was going to be someone I could have given birth to, and I would have no idea if his mother raised him to be respectful to adults.  There is one thing I cannot tolerate, and that’s snotty nosed kids, especially ones that make more money than me, and ones with killer bods that sit near me on the beach.  I hate that.  Almost as much as I hate brides.  And babies.  And anything that’s heart-shaped, or has heart shapes on it.  Unless it’s a heart shaped box of dark chocolate caramels with sea salt…no jellies or creams or cherries.  Yuck.  But I digress.

Back to my friend.  Let’s call her Francesca.  That’s not her real name, but she always wanted to be Francesca, and agreed to let me call her that for the sake of this blog.  It’s got a certain mysterious, romantic, exciting allure to it, she says, plus it’s much easier to spell and pronounce, in case anyone wants to read this stuff aloud over cocktails.

So I reached out to Francesca to set me straight on exactly how I should proceed on my quest to reenter world of the working woman. She has become very successful in her fabulous job that takes her to glamorous, exciting places and she loves it.  I didn’t come right out and ask her to hire me, the moment never seemed quite right, even after we requested the bartender take his coat off and reopen the bar to make us another drink.  Francesca knows me so well and gave me great advice.  Then she really took control of the situation, and put me on a strict plan of action that should have me gainfully employed in my dream job within 4 months, which I think is pretty damn exciting, whether I have to lie on my resume about receiving that awesome award last year or not.

However the most fun part of last night was that in between teaching me how to lie my way through an interview, Francesca was regaling me with tales of her latest sexual escapades, since her divorce became final.  There’s a new man in her life and we’ll call him 39.  That’s what she calls him.  I keep calling him 36 by mistake, but maybe now that I’ve written it down it will be easier for me to remember.

Anyway,  it was all so fascinating because besides the fantastic sex she’s having with 39, she’s taken to walking around the house, nude, in between romps!  I just think that says SO much about confidence and self worth, and I know I will have truly “arrived” when I feel comfortable enough to do that.  It wasn’t really her idea, I mean she says that she never made a habit of walking around the house nude before.  Well, really, that could have been awkward for her sons and their friends.  But since they’ve gone off to college, and haven’t yet surprised her with a pop-in visit, she’s becoming rather comfortable, it seems.  Like I said, it wasn’t her idea, but the first time she asked 39 to get out of bed and change a lightbulb, he did it in the nude.  And I suppose once he got up on the chair and  had his junk at eye level, she must have figured what the hell?  Plus it’s not like women our age have a plethora of sexy loungewear, so what could she have thrown on?  I know for a fact that my flannel monkey pajamas cannot be a turn-on for my husband.  If on the off chance they ARE, I have discovered that layering a couple of tee shirts underneath and throwing on a pair of big fuzzy Santa socks with jingle bells pretty much seals the deal.  There’s no way in hell he’s going to put the moves on me with the lights on.

I am, however, going to keep my eyes out for some sexy loungewear for Francesca because I am sincerely worried that she is going to hurt herself walking around like that.  It was probably a close call with the lightbulb…she mentioned something about the filament and a butter knife…I’m not an electrician so I kind of tuned her out during that part of the story….but I can imagine that the dishwasher would be a NASTY place for your labia to end up getting caught.  Or what if she suddenly felt the urge to vacuum the drapes, or offer her little dog a biscuit?  Ouch.