Real Mom's vs. Real Dad's

I broke a nail.

Fixing Fox's bike.

Now, it should be fore mentioned, that I can indeed, replace the air filter and change the oil and spark plugs on your standard lawn mower. Not that this has anything to do with today, but just so you know I'm not, like, a total loser. Just mostly.

Right, back to Fox.

He drove over something he "didn't see" (read: a bungee cord, that is BRIGHT YELLOW) which them got all tangled up in the clippie thing that holds the wheels onto the bike frame (I'd guess the axle, but don't hold me to that). All I needed to do was find the appropriate wrench (at least, heaven help me, I think that's what it was called). Dug through J's tools, lingering here for all the In Process Projects we've going on. There's a certain amount of conviction that Mom's (or perhaps just this one) have no clue how to fix bikes, or build Tech Deck super platforms, or any other inherently Penis Requiring Activity, nor are we expected to pick out the right tool the first time around.

Which I did. Without swearing.

Okay, without swearing aloud. I mean, come on already, I broke a nail! Actual Real Live Blood Appeared! J owns like a million freaking wrench like things, and none of them looked like the right size! There's going to be some inner swearing.

Not much, mind you, but enough. Being manly apparently involves blood shed while nonchalantly finding just the right tool, and, shrugging off incredible pain. Talking all about the safety in what we're doing with our tools...yadda yadda yadda (as I nicked my hand on the saw blade he had sticking out of the box housing the wrench-y things). I skipped the safety part, because, well, I don't know it. Clearly.

For the record, I suck at both; so I relied heavily on my acting degree. It's from USC...I'm well educated in the art of Making It Look Natural, even when really, I've not the slightest clue as to what I'm doing, but if I can Make It Look Good, I'm Golden!....but as my life sort of feels like that anyway, I've this whole I'm Totally Fine Act down pat.

We got down to business.

Shrugged off searing agony as ripped rest of nail to the quick out of it's place between the lug nut and the bolt, actually spitting it onto the lawn (as I've seen many an athlete do) acted as though nearly losing a digit was par for the course today, and then did all that other Manly Type Stuff I've heard about. Like testing the resistance on the chains. Peeking at the gears. Thumping the tires, double checking their pressure....something along those lines anyway. The chain part? Not really all that much to look at; if it'd fallen off? I'd be fucked. That's how little I know about bikes.

(Look, the last time I owned one, I lived in LA, got it taken from me by a really big guy, with a red cap, white sneakers, and a HUGE GUN POINTED RIGHT AT ME. When I reported it to the LAPD, they told me my description of the gun was spot on - apparently I can indeed pick out a Glock 9 mil without breaking a sweat, good to know...the guy? Well, they'd need more than red hat and white tennies. And that he was dark skinned. Said that didn't really narrow it down, as we lived in The Hood. But I digress.)

I was proving to my son, all my inherent Manliness. That really, at heart, I'm not too much of a girl to do Guy Stuff, because as he so succinctly points out, he needs a man, to show him how to be a man.

I figured, if push came to shove, I could do that. I'm at least game to try.

However.

Perhaps, I too need better male role models. I should stop watching Wrestling Mania, and focus more, on say, This Old House. Except that Bob Vila drives me insane. And, I kinda like the part where the really ugly guy with all the tattoos gets clobbered by another really ugly guy brandishing a folding chair. Opposite ends of the extreme, but I'm beginning to wonder if this is how folks with gender identity issues feel: constantly confused as to ones role in society, or a family, when it's okay to cry, when I'm supposed to Suck It Up Buttercup, because that's what Real Men Do. How I'm supposed to know what tool to look for anyway. How am I supposed to know how to Be A Man?

You know something?

I'm not a Real Man. Hell. I'm not a man. I'm not even remotely butch in any way.

If you looked up Preppy Prissy Princess in the book?

I'd be staring right back at you.

My vision wavered as I severed off my nail, tears threatening, my inner voice shouting mother fucking cock sucker this hurts like a bitch in heat among other such lovely thoughts. My hands shook, while unwinding an unusually long length of bungee cord..... a drop of blood graced the front lawn.

I nearly swooned.

Another dad, across the way, offered to help; but no, oh no, I can do it myself. (what am I, two?)

I did my best Man Impersonation: savagely tore at the nut (going the wrong way the first time, and retightening the blasted thing), loosened it (finally) with a great deal of panache, if I do say so myself, (I'll skip the needing to jump on the wrench to undo the now overtightened freaking nut, and landing on my ass on the front lawn) unraveled the damn bungee cord, which gave way unexpectedly quickly, whacking me right and proper in the left boob.

Took a deep breath, trying to see beyond the bright stars dancing too and fro, steeled myself to not even look at the offending injury, tiny droplets of blood, ignore the now staggeringly thumping left tit.

I'd've given my eye teeth to ice down immediately both hand, and breast, or better yet, curl into the fetal position, and call over the neighbor who I'm sure, has just had the greatest laugh of his entire adult life, along with an EMT with an Epidural from the shoulders down...but I, stubborn ass that I am, panting through the pain, replaced the nut. All by myself.

I swaggered into the garage, tossing tools into their appropriate boxes, made noises about how having the 11/16's wrench is one of the most important ones to own, jogged up the steps as though to go pop open the top of a cold one, perhaps even adjust my junk......- right til the door closed behind me.

And the gig was up.

I swear to God I thought I'd cut off the end of my hand. That perhaps stitches may be needed. That blood, leaking from under the nail bed is never a good sign; that the baby pink polish I'd selected to use, maybe tonight even, if I had time for the At Home Manicure may not cover the damage done.

I think my left breast may indeed fall off. Already the swelling's up to being too big to fit in any bra I own. I think I'm sticking with it could fall off. The iced peas aren't doing much to ease the pain either. Why couldn't it have hit the right one? It's bigger, with more fat, so it should hurt less, yes?

Why in the name of all that was holy did J have to go today to NYC? (hmmm, I'm glossing over the fact that he goes every other Tuesday, so this is not really a surprise here, but still - allow me to have the righteous indignation moment) Seriously.

He's a Total Real Guy, right down to his tool belt. He knows how to do this stuff with his eyes super glued shut.

I use super glue occasionally (to fix a, uh, broken nail I don't want to trim), but mostly I lose the tiny little tubes it comes in. Until J came along, my tools (what few, rusted, totally mishandled and unloved ones I owned) lived in a Gucci bag.

Yes, a Gucci bag. It was classy, clever, and cute. Plus, it held all the tools I owned. I'm proud to admit, I owned like 10 tools. Not to brag, but I have the most straight screwdrivers than anyone could ever hope to need, and the phillips head is easy to find - Pucker chewed on the end. So what if the pliers rusted together; it's not like I really knew what to do with them anyway, other than bead crafts. Oh, yeah, and I had a level. (Not that any artwork or shelving in my house looks as though that was put to use)

I also own the outside part to a caulk gun. (not the caulk anymore, I've blown through three tubes: one on a totally cocked up window sealing job, one got stuck in the gun thing, and had to be cut open with a box cutter I had to borrow, and the third one shrugged off it's protective wrapping becoming hard as a rock in no time flat, therefore, I discovered, unusable). I basically assumed I had all the Right Tools to do all the Guy Stuff around the house. Or in the garage. Or on the front lawn.

I mean, really, how hard can untangling a stupid cord from a bike be anyway?!

Holy. Cow. How was I to know that untangling a bungee cord would be so....so....fraught with danger? I'd never have so blithely entered into this, filled with pride (read: stubborn stupidity) in a bid to show my son that Real Mom's can be Real Dad's too.

The absolute worst part about this whole thing isn't my neighbor laughing his ass off (not that it's the highlight of my night either)....it was watching Foxy put his fucking bike away in the garage right after I fixed it.

If I'd known then, that he wasn't going to ride anymore tonight? Had I been able to draw a full breath without wondering if I'd die, I'd have strangled him. I pulled a total freak show for him to not even ride the damn thing around the block? Are you kidding me? I had so many other options had I known that.

I'd have fallen back on what us Real Women have done for ages:

"Just you wait til J gets back. He'll fix it right up for you, honey." All the while inspecting my lovely pale pink manicure.

I'd deliver this line, just before heading back into the domain where I know what I'm doing, with all the right equipment, sharp tools, and flattering outfits.

I've never nearly severed a breast in a horrific kitchen accident.

And I for damn sure have never broken a nail baking cookies.

As sexist as it sounds -and hats off to you mom's that can do it all - I'm hanging up my tool belt.

Digging out an emery board, nail snippers, and a snifter of scotch. And not necessarily in that order.

I may have broken a nail, sent my left tit so far through my chest it's hanging out my back -but in my son's eyes?

Real Mom's can be Real Dad's too.