Mowing the Legs

As a good Southern girl, I pretend to shave my legs regularly. I don’t mean I’m pretending to do it. I mean I don’t do it and then lie about it. It’s a little rule I have to improve the quality of my life. I don’t eat oysters, wash and wax my floors, or shave my legs in months that contain an R.

Times are changing, though. Instead of doing the floors, I just refinance and move when they get dirty. And forget about the R--these days I don’t eat oysters in any month that has a BP in it.

As far as legs go—and at 5’2” tall, mine don’t go very far—I find that a nice pantsuit is acceptable just about anywhere these days. If I need to wear a dress, I come down with the flu—the best fashion find since stretchy pants.

I tried alternatives to shaving and I’ve learned some helpful tips that will make it easier the next time I wax. This year we used my legs for Christmas candles the whole month of December. I’m not waxing again until I’m a cadaver. The temperature of my body should cool that stuff right down and cut down on the waxy buildup that gave my legs that dull finish during the holidays.

I find that sometimes shaving my legs is like mowing the lawn. These shins have been under cover since November and all manner of vegetation has sprung up in the intervening months. Who knew Virginia Creeper could move that fast? I don’t need a razor. I need a weedeater and the industrial strength size RoundUp. With a spray hose attachment.

That first time you try and take out the Bermuda grass can be an enlightening experience. And how did that thistle sneak in there, anyway? If the Captain wants a First Mate with smooth legs, he’s going to have to bring in the heavy construction equipment. I’ve got a wilderness area that’s likely to be covered by the Environmental Protection Act.

Until then, his razor is my razor. Women don’t get equipment like this. I need something for hacking through the underbrush; say a machete attachment. It’s not fair that the people who need the mulcher the most don’t have the option.

I emptied the grass catching attachment and swept a hand down one shin to see if any bloodletting spikes were apparent.

Apparently somebody planted a cactus garden when I wasn’t looking.

I reached for the phone and dialed an emergency number. What can I say? One of the most important things in lawn care is knowing when to call in a professional.

Hold It!

Some days you have to fight to hold on, even as you’re on hold. The scene: a small office, an injured worker, a secretary. Pleased to meet you. I’m the secretary.

Me *dialing the Insurance Company (referred to in the future as The Defendant) listed in large print on our official Insurance Policy, and assuming a pleasant, yet professional Secretary Barbie voice*: Hi! I have a Worker’s Comp case here. What do I need to do?

Insurance Professional: We don’t handle that. You’ll need to call our claims administrator. They can tell you everything.

Me: Okay. How do I reach them?

Insurance Professional: Call this number, ask for Brandon. *Amy ponders the fact that this sounds a bit like a clandestine drug drop, but decides to play along for the sake of the employee, who is beginning to swell. * "Oh, and you’ll need an Injury Report Form," the Insurance Professional whispers confidentially.

Me: How do I get one?

Insurance Professional *Amy imagines her waving a hand vaguely into the air in the approximation direction of Brazil* They have a website. . .

*Amy Dials New Insurance Professional*

Me: Hi! I have a Worker’s Comp case here. This is a very small office and we’ve never had to file a claim before. I’m supposed to ask for Brandon.

New Insurance Professional: It doesn’t matter who you talk to. You just need to file a claim.

Me: Okay, How do I do that?

New Insurance Professional: I’ll find someone in claims. *Amy makes mental note to apply for job in insurance industry.* You need a claim number. *Puts Amy on hold. No music. No cheerful voice. The sound of a phone echoing in the distance continues until Amy considers retirement and begins to create an online advertisement for her replacement.*

New Insurance Professional comes back on line: You need to verify your policy number. *Amy does this and is rewarded by the ringing phone of doom for another few hours. My fingernails now need trimming and I could use a hair cut and leg wax.*

Another New Insurance Professional comes on line: Hello. (No cheerful voice. No “How can I help you? She sounds as if she’s on an IV Valium drip.)

Me: I have never had to file a Worker’s Comp Claim. I need a claim number.

Another New Insurance Professional: We don’t give out claim numbers.

Me: That’s fine. I just need to send our employee to the doctor. What do I need to do? (Amy is thankful the patient is not spouting the spurty kind of blood. So is the patient.)

Another New Insurance Professional: I don’t think we give out claim numbers. I’ll ask my supervisor.

Me: I just need to know *Amy interrupted by her arrival once again on the Insurance Hold System which equates with Dante’s Seventh Level, the one populated by people who could not pass the Wal-Mart Greeter test. This time, however, she is serenaded with music from Casper the Friendly Ghost. Okay maybe it’s not Casper, but it’s not Mozart either.*

*Amy organizes pencil drawer, stacks post-it notes according to color, and alphabetizes contents of candy dish. Just as she tears page off calendar and resets clocks to daylight savings time, her old friend comes back on the line.*

Another New Insurance Professional: Yeah, we don’t give out claim numbers.

Me: That’s fine. What do I need to do to get this employee seen by a doctor?

Another New Insurance Professional: You can call in the report.

Me: Should I do that now or later?

Another New Insurance Professional: Yes.

Me: So I need to call you later?

Another New Insurance Professional: You can. Or you can do it now. * Amy holds phone away from ear. This kind of stupid might just seep through the phone line. Just my luck, to avoid swine flu and get struck down by this. *

Me: So I can do it now?

Another New Insurance Professional: If you want to. Whenever. At your convenience.

Me: So I can send our employee to the doctor and then call you?

ANIP: If you like.

Me: Do I need to ask for you? *Please, God, no* What’s your name?

ANIP: Beelzebub *This is not entirely accurate. I changed names to more accurately describe the situation.*

Me: So she can just go on to the doctor.

ANIP: Well she needs to go to an Urgent Care Facility.

Me: So she doesn’t go to her own doctor? How clever of you to mention it.

ANIP: Yeah.

Me: I don’t have a claim form.

ANIP: Well you can just call. . .

Me: Got it. Thanks so much for your assistance.

* Amy terminates the call and considers terminating the Insurance Professional but is leery of being placed on hold indefinitely and doesn’t think she can hold out much longer. *

Employee: So what do I do?

Me: Hold on.

Totally Birthday Barbie

Looking at us together, you probably can’t tell that Barbie and I are the same age; sister Baby Boomers from 1959. It’s hardly a fair comparison. You can’t help but notice that plastic face and wide-eyed stare. Frankly, I think she’s had work done. Either that or she’s been cooking up something in her cutting edge gourmet kitchen besides Vegetarian Delight. If it’s Barbie’s fault that I have to sign for Sudafed during allergy season, I hope she gets a sinus infection that all the pills in her executive briefcase can’t cure.

But even with all the corporate trimmings, the girl can’t hold a job. Of course, what do you expect from someone who tattoos her underwear on her body? I can think of some suitable careers, but nothing she’d want to write home to Totally Downhome Mom and Dad about. After all, who knows what’s gone on in that Dream House over the years?

Fifty years ago Barbie hit the fashion scene as a teen—the first Supermodel that didn’t eat. That famous high step the runway models use come from Barbie before she had knees put in. Now we know where Heidi and Giselle got their inspiration. Barbie was around even before Victoria had a secret.

Frankly, I wouldn’t give the girl a job reference. A jobhopper like that will just ruin your reputation. Honestly, if you run for president three times and can’t collect a percentage of the popular vote, it’s time to move on. She’s been through more careers than Hilary Clinton has power suits. The next profession that comes out with a powderpuff pink uniform and a logo crafted from Swarovski crystals, she’ll ditch the corporate office for the double dipper position at the ice cream shop. And who knows what kind of shape the files are in at the job she left behind. It’s not like she can bend properly to put anything away. The last time she leaned over to open the bottom drawer, Ken had to go in for surgery that ultimately led to their breakup.

As a matter of fact, career stress is probably the cause of that pasty face and wide-eyed gaze. After fifty years of fretting how she’s going to make payments on that luxury Malibu lifestyle, there should be a worry line or two across that smooth forehead. Who does she think she is, Jennifer Anniston? Instead she shows up day after day with a new dress, a plastic smile, and a recycled boyfriend. One more accessory binge, honey, and Skipper and the gang are going to have to stage an intervention.

It's not that I don't love Barbie. I still have my 1960 Bubble Hairdo Barbie in a box in the closet. And come to think of it, she doesn't look anything like the perfect models on display. She shows suspicious signs of sharing a tea party or two over the years, and her home perm makes her look more bobblehead than Bubble Head. In my living room, she was the center of more weddings than a handful of Gabor sisters with an Elizabeth Taylor kicker. She never had a career, but she played out all my childhood fantasies and made a little girl’s dreams come true.

And that’s the most important job of all.

Happy Birthday, Barbie.