Susieboldt's Blog

Random Comments from a Dreamer

An Update

Hello eveyone!

Many of you may be wondering why I haven’t been posting regularly.

The sad truth of the matter is that school has taken over my life. I have no time for reading, writing, or any other fun things. I spend my time immersed in school work.

I wish I could juggle all the things in my life perfectly: school, work, family, friends, husband, blogging, but unfortunately I am a horrible juggler. So, I’ve decided to take a break from blogging. No, I am not giving it up. I am only taking a hiatus.

I don’t know how long this break will be, but when I decide I am ready to start blogging again, I will alert you via Facebook. For those of you who follow my blog, but are not my Facebook friends, I first of all thank you for keeping up with my blog, and second, I suggest you check back once a month.

Thanks again my faithful blog readers. I will be back. It’s a guarantee.

As for my time off during Christmas: I will be working on submitting my very first completed novel to a publishing contest! Wish me luck!

Over and Out,



November 25, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | 6 Comments

Oh, How I Love my Sleep!

I fall asleep during the most inappropriate times.

Every Sunday I fall asleep at church. Right in the middle of a sermon. Okay…that’s a lie. Directly after the introduction. I sneakily close my eyes and lower my head just slightly. By doing this, nobody behind me can tell that I’m sleeping. Unfortunately, everyone to the sides and in front of me can easily tell. This includes the pastor. On a side note: I’m pretty sure that it’s impossible for me not to fall asleep. I’m thinking about letting scientists experiment on me.

When my head starts to nod I try to find a spot behind somebody’s head. This makes me pretty much invisible. Everybody knows that if you can’t see the pastor, the pastor can’t see you. The problem with hiding behind somebody’s head is that this somebody could easily move or shift. This is something I wouldn’t notice, because I’m sleeping.

I think pastors have a sixth sense. If somebody has closed their eyes for more than four minutes, the pastor senses a disturbance in the force and locates the sinner with little difficultly. The pastor then writes this person’s name in his little black book of people who need prayer. Okay, so the pastor doesn’t have a little black book where he writes down names each week, but that’s what it feels like.

I’ve been caught a few times. I’m just minding my own business, sleeping, when I feel a set of eyes staring into my soul. I open my eyes and find myself staring into the pastor’s. I look away quickly and pretend to be reading my Bible. This is slightly problematic since I rarely (actually never) bring my Bible to church.

I hope the pastors don’t get offended by sleepers. I mean, let’s face reality: you’re surrounded by people, many of whom have large heads to block yours from getting seen, the sermon is long, and you’ve woken up early. These are great conditions for sleeping. We sleepers really can’t be blamed. Frankly, I think the pastor is asking too much of us to listen for more than fifteen minutes at a time, yet alone forty.

I used to have this teacher for history, and I would fall asleep, literally, every class. It was right after lunch, and everybody knows that food needs time to settle before your brain can even process the concept of history. I won’t lie, I felt bad about sleeping during every class. Of course, not bad enough to stay awake.

One day, I approached this teacher and asked him how it made him feel when I slept. He told me that it made him feel stupid. I told him that I would try to stop, but I was pretty sure I had some sort of condition where fatigue controlled my body. It was a good thing I was doing well on assignments or he surely would have failed me.

The next day, I fell asleep again. When I awoke, there was a small puddle of drool on my desk. It was highly embarrassing, and the people around me laughed. You would think that an experience like this would propel me to stay awake. Ha! If you think a little drool would keep me from sleep, you’re crazy! Sleep overpowers embarrassment. Everybody knows that. So unfortunately, neither the drool, nor the teacher’s response helped me to stay awake.

One day, a friend of mine noticed my sleeping problem and offered me a caffeine pill. He used them all the time when he got sleepy, and he told me that it would literally be impossible for me to sleep after taking one. Of course, it never occurred to me that he was offering me drugs. It was small and purple and had a picture of a rooster on it. I swallowed it, knowing my teacher would be proud.

Class came around, and to my friend’s complete astonishment, I fell asleep. Apparently, it became a class conversation as to how I could have possibly fallen asleep. But as you know, I was asleep and cannot verify such accounts.

After such an experience, I now laugh in the face of roosters.


Image from:

November 8, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

My First Major Highway Experience

I hate driving on major highways.

There are cars and big trucks all around me, and there’s always a good chance that a trucker might not notice my little Toyota Corolla driving beside him.

The other day I was trying to switch lanes, going from the outer lane into the middle. The trucker beside me, in the opposite outside lane, was thinking the same thing. We both started manoeuvring into the middle lane at the same moment, and by the time either one of us noticed, we were both past the point of no return. It’s a good thing my car is tiny, because I just cranked the wheel to the left, and sandwiched myself between two cars beside me. The car behind me honked his horn, and I flushed in embarrassment. It seems the trucker won. Truckers always win.

The first time I drove on a major highway, it happened by accident. I was visiting a friend an hour away, and my GPS was telling me where to go. It got me there just fine, but for some reason on the way back, it decided that I should take a different and less familiar route. I had no idea where it was taking me. Until, that is, I noticed that I was on an enter ramp for the 401 HWY (a major 4 lane highway).

To make matters worse…much worse, it was dark and snowing hard. There was a thin layer of snow already on the ground and the snowploughs hadn’t distributed any salt yet. My visibility was horribly limited, and those dang mesmerizing snowflakes kept distracting me.

These conditions made me drive like an old lady. I had both hands tightly clenched on the steering wheel, my back was hunched so far over that my face was just inches from the dashboard, and my mind was racing a hundred miles per hour of all the things I had not yet done in life.

So here I was, driving on the 401, in the blinding snow, in the dark, at eleven o’ clock, with nobody but me knowing where I was. I’m surprised I didn’t pass out from mental exhaustion. The road was slippery, so I let my car slow down to sixty kilometres an hour, (on a 100 km/h highway), and this then produced a whole new round of fear in me. What if the cars behind me didn’t realize I was going as slow as a turtle? Would they hit me from behind because they wouldn’t have enough time to stop? Is it just me who finds the road slippery, or are other people driving slow too? Is it a full moon? And are werewolves real?

Okay, so I didn’t actually think that last thought, but it’s a valid thought, right?  Regardless, everyone else had been smart enough to avoid such deadly conditions. I was watching the road carefully, doing my best to stay in my lane, when I noticed headlights in my rear-view mirror. Was he driving fast? I couldn’t tell. He came up behind me and then passed me in the next lane. He was driving a vehicle equipped with 4X4. I was sure of it, considering he was going over eighty. Great. Not only was I scared beyond belief, but I was also embarrassed. Who goes sixty on the 401? Only me, in my tiny Corolla.

I kept driving and looking at the GPS for when my exit would come up. It wasn’t helping me at all, and I made a silent vow to run it over with my car when I got home. Eventually, after thirty minutes of incredibly tense, white-knuckled driving, the GPS told me my exit. I located it and drove onto the exit ramp. What a wonderful feeling that was.

At that point I only had twenty or so minutes left until I reached my house. It was still snowing, the ploughmen were still sleeping, and my car was still very bad in the snow. Miraculously, I made it home without careening into a ditch, getting eaten by werewolves, or getting hit by faster cars behind me.

It was one of the worst driving experiences I’ve ever had.

I now avoid all major highways.

Image from:

October 28, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Good Times at the Dentist

I had all four wisdom teeth pulled last year and boy what an experience that was.

Because oral surgery was needed and it wasn’t a simple pull and extract operation I was given the luxury of sedatives. The dentist hooked up an IV to my vein and pumped me full of drugs. Unfortunately, there was a slight problem with this. The usual dosage that the dentist gave me wasn’t enough to put me out. I was fully awake; following the dentist’s every movement with my eyes. He walked over to the stainless steel bench holding his tools and began to talk.

Dentist: “I don’t know why we have to keep putting out our patients. They’re having their teeth pulled out! It’s not necessary! I’m tired of having to pry open their mouths and listen to them mumble about their boyfriends!” (I left out the swear words…he said two).

The dentist then grabbed a scary looking tool and walked over to me. I couldn’t talk or move, but I stared at him wide eyed hoping he would notice. I was awake! Thankfully his assistant noticed.

Assistant: “Uh, Dr._____ she’s awake.”

Dentist: “Not possible.”

Assistant: “No really, she’s awake.”

The dentist looked at me with shock. Probably because he knew that I had heard his rant.

Dentist: “Give her another dose.”

The assistant walked over to the machine hooked up to my arm and pressed a button. I watched as more liquid flowed into my arm. I stared up at the ceiling because it was too awkward to look at the dentist now that I had heard him swear. I thought about his comment of patients mumbling about their boyfriends, and wondered if I would say anything embarrassing while out. I hoped not. I then had a moment of confusion when the lights turned out. I remember thinking: how is the dentist going to pull my teeth out if the lights are off? The lights then flickered back on and that was all that I remember. I was completely out after that. Completely.

I won’t lie to you, it felt nice. It felt really nice. I understand now why drug addicts are addicted to drugs. The feeling of forced unconsciousness is a wonderful sensation. Unfortunately and fortunately, that wonderful feeling was gone when I woke up; unfortunately, because I wanted that great feeling to last, and fortunately, because if it had lasted, I would be a drug addict. I woke up feeling groggy and unaware. I could barely walk and my mind was all over the place. I felt stupid and probably looked stupid. As my husband was escorting me to the car I actually pointed to a car and gave it a thumbs up. Yes, I was out of it. I was giving thumbs up’s to cars.

All in all, it was a crazy experience. One that I hope never to repeat.


Image from:

October 13, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | 5 Comments

My Adventure With Greek Cheese

I once worked for a restaurant/reception hall. You couldn’t really call this place either of those two things, but for this blog post, that’s what I’m sticking with.

It was my job to make this reception hall look fancy for the bride, groom, and their guests. I would polish every single utensil with a water and vinegar solution. I would set up the decorations and lay out the table clothes. I would vacuum and dust. And I loved it! It was a great gig…except for my lunches.

You see, I worked for Greek people, and Greek people love their food. During lunch the chefs would round up all the employees together and make us try their latest food creations. Afterwards we would give our opinions and decide whether or not it was good enough to make it onto their menu.

I’m not one of those types of people who can eat anything that’s placed in front of them. I am slightly picky. I sniff at new food, making sure that it smells appetizing. Then I examine the new food, and make sure it has no hair or finger nails in it. Then I take a small bite of the new food. If it’s something that I can handle, I take another bite, and so on and so forth until I’ve had my fill.

Unfortunately, during these lunches we weren’t allowed to be picky. Picky got you fired. So I ate everything that was put in front of me. I ate new and interesting salads, weird spicy mashed potatoes, fish creations of all kinds, and unidentifiable meats that to this day I have no idea what they were. I never complained, sniffed, poked, or examined the food. I ate like any normal non-picky person would eat, with no regrets.

One day I was called away from my duties of polishing silverware to taste-test a new menu option in the kitchen. It wasn’t lunch, nor was I hungry. But, I joined the rest of the employees in the kitchen, because if I hadn’t I would have been fired. On this particular day, the chef was the owner, and he had made something that smelled bad. Now when I say the word “bad”, I mean bad, in the worst possible sense. I walked into that kitchen with trepidation. Anything that smelled that bad was clearly not worth eating. I entered the semi-circle of employees standing around the chef and he handed us all a skewer with a whitish blob impaled on the top. I held it at arm’s length and then winced and gagged a little. The chef hadn’t noticed.

The chef then explained what it was that we were eating. It was cheese. Fried cheese. Fried Greek cheese. It sounds okay, right? NO! WRONG! Even before I got the blob to my mouth I had gagged five times. I contemplated choosing between the options of eating this cheese, and possibly dying, or worse, throwing up in front of the chef! Or getting fired. It seemed both options were leading to the same thing anyway.

I watched as the rest of the Greek employees ate their cheese with smiles and satisfying looks on their faces. I did the unthinkable. I put the cheese in my mouth and prayed to God. Please God don’t let me throw up. Please don’t let me throw up. I’ll pray more if you allow me not to throw up!

I threw up.

Thankfully though, I managed to hold it in just long enough to run to the bathroom. I did not throw up in the kitchen in front of the chef. I remember that just before running out of the kitchen I gave the chef a nod of approval and a closed-mouth smile. Had I opened my mouth to utter any syllables, I would have thrown up right there and then.

Two weeks later I was fired. Apparently throwing up in the bathroom was just as bad as throwing up in the kitchen.

I stay away from all Greek cheeses now. Yes, even Feta. There are days when I still smell that awful aroma of that horrid whitish blob. It’s embedded itself in my memory and sometimes comes back to haunt me. There is no escaping it.

Be afraid of whitish blobs stuck on skewers. Be very afraid.


Image from:

October 7, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | 2 Comments

Spoiled Food

Have you ever poured yourself a tall glass of refreshing milk, only to realize that after you’ve taken a huge gulp, it’s spoiled?

Well I haven’t. I have an excellent nose. I can smell bad milk a mile away, or so I thought…

I was sitting down to enjoy some oatmeal the other day, and after I took a few bites I realized that I just couldn’t go any further. It smelled…bad. And it tasted even worse. I bought some bad oatmeal. I didn’t even think oatmeal could go bad. I gagged a little, then gagged some more, and then packed up the rest of the oatmeal packages to return them to the store.

I walked into that store confidently, knowing that I got bad oatmeal. Bad oatmeal with an indecipherable expiry date.  I explained my horrible experience of taking at least three bites of the bad oatmeal, and without any questions the store clerk gave me my money back.

Later that week I decided to eat some cereal. After taking a few bites, I declared that my cereal was bad. How did I get bad oatmeal and bad cereal? I remember thinking how insane this was, what are the odds?! Who gets so many bad products?

By now I’m sure you’ve figured out my mistake. My mistake was ever deciding to pick up a bowl. I should just stick to buying food at restaurants; it’s what I’m best at.

I didn’t get bad oatmeal, and I didn’t get bad cereal. I got bad milk. I look back on this memory and wonder how stupid I could have possibly been to not even think that the milk was bad. I’m not lying when I say that it did not even cross my thoughts.

I have a new appreciation for milk now. When I drink it, I think of how good it tastes, and how awful it becomes a day after the expiry date. With most foods I don’t worry about the expiry date, a few days/weeks overdue doesn’t seem to matter. I eat eggs even if they’ve expired three weeks ago. Sour Cream is good for at least eight days after the expiry date, and cheese…well cheese lasts until it’s covered in mold. But milk…now that’s a different story. People should follow milk’s expiry dates without question.

Ever since I ate that bad oatmeal I’ve been feeling nauseous. I can’t eat anything without feeling nauseous…and no I AM NOT PREGNANT! Let me repeat this, just in case you missed the “NOT”: I AM NOT PREGNANT! The bad milk tainted my taste buds for life. I can’t eat anything now without first thinking back to that awful taste! I just recently had oatmeal for the first time since that horrible ordeal, it tasted…different.

I’m hoping that this experience will someday leave me, and I’ll be able to eat food normally again, but I doubt it.

Stay tuned for my follow up post about my adventures with an unknown Greek cheese…

October 5, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

The Old Woman Who Lived in the Shoe

Could you imagine being a mother of sixteen children? How about a sibling to fifteen brothers and sisters?

Nope, I couldn’t either.

I read about a woman who had sixteen kids, and I had to do a double take and re-read what I had already read. 16 KIDS!! I don’t even know how to wrap my head around this. That’s enough kids to make your own baseball team, and have extras! That’s enough kids to fill a small bus. That’s enough kids to run your own farm without ever having to pay employees. You get the picture.

I wonder how long it took for this woman to run out of names. I can barely think of one boy name that I like. If I had to think of more than one, I’d probably just start naming them after fathers and grandfathers and then other people’s fathers and grandfathers.

I wonder how big this family’s dinner table was. Was it big enough to fit everyone, or did they have to take shifts? I’m betting on shifts.

How were the sibling’s relationships with each other? I mean, by the time the mom is done having kids you’d have a significant age difference between the oldest and youngest.  Some siblings would probably get really close to others in the same age bracket, and then pick on the younger ones.

I wonder what kind of personalities each kid got, and if they’re all different. And how would the birth order theory work with sixteen kids!?

As you can see, I’m having a very difficult time imagining such a life.

This woman, who I don’t even know, reminds me of the old lady who lived in the shoe. I don’t really know why; perhaps because the old lady who lived in the shoe had a lot of kids. This is really the only parallel.

I can just picture it now: the kids are outside misbehaving, they’ve tied poor Timmy to the swing, and now they’re playing piñata with him using those sponge swords. Timmy’s not having a good time. All of a sudden, the mother rushes out of the shoe-house waving a rolling pin in the air, shouting at her boys to leave Timmy alone. The boys run off, leaving Timmy tied to the swing that he had been enjoying just a few moments before. This is how I picture life as being when you have sixteen kids.

I wonder if the youngest children received anything new at all. They probably wore everyone else’s hand-me-downs, and used everyone else’s broken toys. Those poor children. Imagine playing truck with a truck that’s missing a wheel. It’s always going to tip over, no matter what you load in the back. Or imagine playing with a doll, who’s been drawn on, had one of her eyes ripped out, and her head swivels all the way around because the siblings before her kept taking if off!

I’d like to meet every one of these kids (grown-up’s by now), and do a case study on their lives. Who got picked on? Who was the instigator? Who were the shy ones? Who loves math, and who loves reading? I could ask so many questions!

All I know is that I will not be having sixteen kids. I am not willing to move into a shoe, nor am I willing to carry around a rolling pin, looking like a crazy lady.

Nope, three to four kids will do fine.


Image from:

September 30, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | 3 Comments

Awkward Phrases

I went through a Tim Horton’s drive through the other day and ordered one of those sausage breakfast sandwiches on an English muffin. My friend then decided that she wanted one too, but this was after I had already given them my order.

My mind went blank and I said: “Oh! I’ll take another one of those thingys, the EggMcMuffin on the English muffin…Oh, I mean not EggMcMuffin, but the…yeah…you know, I mean the thing I just ordered.”

The Tim Horton’s worker responded with: “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean,” as if she got that all the time.

Of course when I pulled up to the window to pay, my face was bright red and my friend and I were laughing hysterically.

I usually pride myself in getting drive through orders perfect. Certainly, that didn’t happen this time, and it became an awkward, embarrassing moment.

Another awkward phrase that I say much too often is: “you too.”

I was in the grocery store when I saw an old friend of mine. She had just come back from her honeymoon and I asked her how it went. Of course everything was great, not like I expected any different response from her, and then asked her where exactly she went. “The Mayan Riviera,” she answered. I told her that my husband and I, and my family wanted to go to the Mayan next year. But because of our grocery store setting, our conversation got cut short and she told me to have fun when I go, and I answered with the awkward, “You too!” Oh boy. That doesn’t even make any sense. Why would I say that? Yeah, have fun on your Mayan vacation next year too! Jeesh. Sometimes I wonder about myself. Of course my friend just gave me a smile and walked away, probably not sure what to say to me after having just embarrassed myself. I couldn’t stop thinking about those stupid two little words all the way home, and you can probably sense that I still kick myself over it.

We, as in people, like to say “You too” when in restaurants as well. After receiving our food, many waitresses/waiters will say, “Enjoy your food!” And of course, the natural reaction from us is to say, “You too!”

This is always an embarrassing situation. The waiter isn’t eating anything, and probably won’t be until either break or shift-end. I’m sure they’re used to hearing it, but if I was a waitress and people kept saying “You too!” to me, I’d constantly be jealous that I don’t get to enjoy the food. I’d probably also be thinking that the only food I get to enjoy is the stale Twinkie in my lunch box, and then I’d become resentful and treat my tables badly. Then I would lose my tips.

We also tend to say, “you too” when in response to someone telling us “Happy Birthday!” And “Congratulations!” The list goes on. We say this a lot, and most of the time, without thinking.

Can you think of anymore awkward phrases? Maybe you said something to someone lately that became completely uncomfortable, tell me about it! I’d love to hear your stories. I can’t be the only one in the world who says embarrassing things…

September 27, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | 5 Comments


As I was driving home from Windsor the other day, a group of three four-wheelers were hogging one of the back-roads I take. They were driving in the middle of the road in a V formation and they were all wearing helmets, except for the leader of the pack who was wearing a ski-mask.

I slowed down, a little worried, considering they were coming straight for me, but thankfully they all moved out of the way. But the leader with the ski-mask turned his head slowly and let his eyes linger on me inside of the car. I stared back, defiantly of course, but on the inside I was completely creeped out. It was one of those looks you see in movies, where everything goes slow-motion and the background music starts to play with your mind… I can still picture the exact look he gave me, and how long he stared. In fact, I do believe I had a nightmare about it last night.

I drove away slowly, because my car is incapable of accelerating fast, and kept looking back at them in my rear-view mirror. I was thinking that they could have been robbers, waiting for a victim in a slow car. They would surround this victim, force her out of the car, and steal anything worth value. Good thing I have nothing of value inside my car, unless that is, you count my miniature umbrella. After a few seconds of driving they were gone and out of sight. Although, even though they were out of sight, I kept wondering why the ski-mask leader had looked at me like that. And throughout the next fifteen minutes of driving home, I came to a conclusion.

It’s simple, really. He was wearing a mask.

Yes the hat is called a ski-mask, but really it can qualify as being just a mask. It covers the entire face, all except for the eyes and mouth. And masks make people do weird things. They make people do things that they would not normally do. I’ve seen this happen first hand. Somebody who’s shy puts on a mask, and suddenly they’re dancing and doing weird hand motions; things that they would never do without the aid of the mask.

I once wore a ski-mask for work, when I worked in lawn care. It was November and snowing outside, but we still had piles of leaves to clean up. So here I was, bundled in a winter jacket, two pairs of socks, and gloves, and my trusty ski-mask. Of course with all that I was wearing, no one would know it was me. So to make my day just a little bit better, I jumped into a pile of leaves and relished in the moment. Of course the leaves were frostbitten and nowhere near soft, but lying in the pile of crusty leaves was still better than having to clean them up. We were working beside a busy road and the leaf pile I was lying in was right next to this road. Multiple people stared at me as they slowly drove by, and I stared back. It was as if the ski-mask had given me an alternate personality where it’s okay for me to jump in leaf piles, acting childish, and stare back at people. No one would recognize me and so there wouldn’t be any repercussions.

That is exactly why this man on his four-wheeler locked eyes with me; the mask had given him the ability to do so. Manners tell us not to creep someone out like that, but if your face is hidden, and no one knows who you are, why bother with manners?

If you don’t know the feeling of putting on a mask, and suddenly feeling like an alternate version of yourself, try it sometime and let me know how it goes. It’s quite the liberating experience.

Image from:

September 17, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Sometimes it Sucks Being a Woman

There are moments in my life when I detest being female.

My husband and I have ventured into a complete kitchen overhaul; one that includes re-painting, replacing the floor and counter top, and adding trim to our cupboards. To be completely honest with you, this project involves more of me and less of my husband. Frankly he doesn’t have the time or interest in involving himself with this project.

Because I am the one tackling this project, I figured I could save money in doing a few things by myself…how naive of me.

I have this image of myself. In this image, not only am I a competent woman who can do anything I put my mind to, but I am also completely capable of successfully using a saw and cutting wood. Turns out, this image of me and me actually, are two very different beings.

The actual me cannot cut wood. I cannot do anything I set my mind to like I thought I could, and I am not competent. Now, before I go any further, let me clear something up. I have a notorious tract record for being negative, but this post is not negative, it is realist. There is a major difference, and if you do not know the difference, you should probably exit out of this post and get out your dictionary.

I started this project in which I line my kitchen cupboards with trim. First, I begged my Dad for a lesson on how to use a Miter Saw; second, I borrowed that Miter Saw; and third, I set up that Miter Saw in my garage. I then proceeded to buy the trim, stuff the trim into my vehicle, and set the trim up next to the saw. I calculated my measurements and measured my first piece of trim. I was now ready.

I put my safety glasses on, placed the trim under the blade, and got ready to push the button. It was then when I realized that my saw was not angled properly for the type of cut I wanted. I didn’t panic because my Dad had showed me to re-position the saw. All I had to do was insert a dohicky into its proper dohicky spot and then loosen the saw’s base. Once loosened, I could slide the saw over and cut my trim properly.

So I placed the dohicky into its hole and turned. Only, nothing happened. The dohicky did not move and I began to question why it had looked so easy when my Dad did it. I tried again, and again, and again. I just wasn’t strong enough. After five minutes of yelling, occasionally kicking, and mentally cursing, I gave up. It wasn’t going to happen. I even attempted to use a vice grip and a hammer. The only thing that was going to work was the hand of a man. I needed strength.

I was now unable to use the saw all day, even though I had set aside that entire afternoon to cut trim. Instead of successfully using the Miter Saw, I walked inside -completely defeated, and plopped myself onto the couch. My sadness over having useless weak female hands made me fall asleep and I took a three hour nap. That’s what defeat does to you; it makes you take pity naps.

After my husband came home from work, he successfully turned the little dohicky in its little hole, and re-positioned the saw. I was feeling a little better about myself after this, because it took my husband a few tries to turn it.

The next day I was feeling capable and ready to start this project, now that the saw had been loosened. I headed out into the garage, positioned my trim, put on my safety glasses, and proceeded to push the on button. Nothing happened. No spinning of the blade or defeating saw noises, nope, nothing. I checked the cord and outlet, everything worked. I couldn’t wrap my head around this. The saw worked when my Dad tried it. But not for me. Hmm….

I’ve come to the conclusion that the saw hates me, and hates the fact that a woman is attempting to use it. If I was a male, I’d have stronger hands and be able to turn the saw. If I was a male, the saw would turn on for me, probably without me having to push any buttons. Saws just know.

Now, after the image of competent me has been stabbed and murdered, I can only dream about being as confident as the woman in the above picture.

I blame my failure on my womanhood.

But let me assure you, there is a silver lining to this dismal cloud. There was one way in which I succeeded. Because I am a woman, I managed to not pick up that saw and throw it to the ground; like I envisioned myself doing a thousand times. Amazingly, it’s still alive and in one piece. Women have an uncanny level of control.

Picture from:

September 13, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | 2 Comments