It’s Friday, so let’s talk boyz, and by boyz, I mean men. You know….. the hopefully mature variety.

When I arrived at work this morning I noticed that my waste basket hadn’t been emptied in almost three days and evidence of at least three forbidden food groups were spilling over the top. Just before lunch a woman from house-keeping arrived to empty it. We got on the topic of me trying to sell my house, and I happened to mention that the house was far too big for me, and that after I had bought out my sister’s interest in it two years ago, decided to down-size. The house-keeper asked if I had a partner and I said, no. Then she said, ” And I bet it’s just as well that you don’t.” My immediate response without applying any filters was a definite, “Hell, yeah”.

It’s been almost two years since I’ve dated anyone, and in my mind I was clever enough to ensure the last dating adventure ended on a high note, with me leaving my delightful Cuban friend in Havana with an adios para siempre, augmented with a hug and kiss, and hasta luego……. or more to the point, let’s just be friends spiel. I know, I know. Cruel, but kind at the same time.

I live alone with an orange Tabby named Gus, who is somewhat needy and eccentric. I am required to keep his food bowl filled to tea brim with Kibble, as well as keep a supply of fresh drinking water on hand. He possesses strange habits. For example, he routinely climbs up onto the bathroom counter and goes crazy on a bar of a soap the way a cow might go after a salt lick. The soap is perfumed, like most. Anyone who has ever had the misfortune, and might I say, inappropriate punishment of having their mouth washed out with soap as a kid, knows that no bar of soap is appetizing. Gus has yet to figure this one out, however. Another habit of his is to sit on the rug beside the bath tub whenever I am about to bathe. As soon as the taps have been turned off and I am comfortably stretched out and in relax mode, he stands upon his hind legs, staring at me with huge dilated pupils, insisting that I dribble hot bath water onto the edge of the tub so he can lap it up. This strange ritual requires at least 20-30 repetitions before he is willing to leave me alone.

Other demands and duties include the twice daily cleaning of his litter box, picking up the sundry toys that he has hauled all over the house and then discarded when he has grown bored of them, as well as my doling out ear scratches and pets, assuring him that he and he alone, is my one true love.

I know, right? Labor intensive.

Irena Dunn, an Australian writer, social activist and film maker once coined the phrase, ” A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” which was later co-opted by the feminist, Gloria Steinem.

During bored moments and during times in my youth when I briefly flirted with radical feminist ideology, I have to confess that I’d given this adage more than a little air-play. If I am being truly honest with myself, however, I have to admit that some of my choices in men may have been ill advised. Life has taught me that you can take a frog and dress him up in princely finery, but at the end of the day, he’s still a frog, and lord knows, I’ve kissed at least a bakers dozen of them in my time.

Don’t get me wrong, they still attract me with whatever”je nais se quoi” thing they’ve got going on that I’ve yet to figure out , and which I’m assuming has something to do with a perfect storm of male pheromones, tight pants, and my own brand of euphoric recall which allows me to conveniently forget why they are best held at arms length.

Which brings me to my attractive mechanic. Luckily for me I did the research and he is married, and probably happily so. What God has joined together, under no circumstances do I tear asunder, because I am NEVER going to be that woman. The home-wrecking kind. I leave those tactics to those less than desirable women belonging to the sisterhood.

Tonight the mechanic is taking off my snow tires and replacing them with summer ones. I gird myself in advance by putting on my best poker face, and allowing no aspect of my body language to indicate the increase in blood pressure, respirations and pulse when he takes time out from greasing axles to chat me up in the waiting room. I can be pure ninja, like that.

So, I don’t know if this blog has a point or not, but I’ve been recently casting about for a blog topic that excludes my whining about my ill health and prednisone, and my fear of developing a goatee over night. When the housekeeper conveniently provided a topic, I seized on it.

So there you have it. My thoughts regarding men.

In summary, even if my mechanic was single and available, I’d be secretly doing a reconnaissance and assessing for frog behavior. Is the tongue sticky, for example, and does he have a penchant for insects, spiders, and earth worms? Does he punctuate his sentences with croaks and ribbets, and are his natural enemies bats, racoons, turtles and snakes? A yes answer to any of the above would be an automatic no-go.

So here’s to frogs and men! God bless them every one.