Ugh. I really must stop rereading my last entries before bed.

Because here's the thing. I just canNOT leave an entry about Men or Boys or whatever as the last entry before I head out for the evening.

It makes me feel as if I have deserted my Feminist roots. Because I am a feminist, goddammit. I may love my Boy, but that does not in any way prevent me from disliking most of the Male Race (sorry any boys out there, though it seems there aren't many, reading me anyway).

I have always been a huge fan of the line from Sister Suffragette (sp?) in Mary Poppins (yes, I know) that goes "Though we adore men in-div-id-ually, we must agree that as a group they're rah-ther stupid."

Which personally I think is dead-on. But I would take it at least one step further.

I'll trust a woman 10 times sooner than a man. And I don't trust women any-too-quick either. I don't trust *people*. But I am way more willing to be ... um, what's the word? Generous, maybe. To a woman. Probably has to do with being beat up by guys. But at any rate.

Yes, I am merely making an entry so as not to leave the Boyfriend Tales up as the last entry. Somebody remind my why I wanted to write about them to begin with?

There has GOT to be something else for me to say.

Hey, I could tell the Old Lady's Feet Story. It may be gross, but it's not a Boy.

I started doing odd jobs around the neighborhood when I was 8, because I wanted My Own Money. I've mentioned that Independance Streak the size of Wisconsin before, so no need to say it again.

One of the odd jobs I had was cleaning Mrs. Rogers' house. I got $2 an hour, and she worked me to the BONE. Dusting, vacuuming, in nooks and crannies, taking apart the stove to clean it, under the baseboards, the whole kit and caboodle.

The place was also a sty. Approximately 70 years worth of CRAP was *everywhere*. Boxes. Collections. Statuettes. Furniture, and...most of all...Knick-Knacks. To a degree one does not believe exists. There were more knick-knacks in her goddamn 1-bedroom apartment than there are people in Yemen. Jesus. And I got to dust each and every one.

Also she made me do the laundry, complete with hanging the wets out on the clothesline, which wouldn't have been so bad except that at 8 it was really, really hard to pull that damn clothesline in and out.

But the worst, and last, time was when she made me wash her feet. Yes, her feet.

It was too hard for her to wash them herself, or something. She made me make up a basin of warm water and Epsom salts and wash her nasty-ass feet, bunions and all. I almost cried right then and there.

I went home after that job, and mentioned something to my mother about the Feet. Man. More points to MY mama. She got right on the horn with nasty-ass Mrs Rogers who had lived there forever in our neighborhood and gave her what-for, something serious.

Never went back there. Did keep doing odd jobs. Only cleaned though for a lady named Rose, who was sweet as it gets.

Man, did that suck. The feet-washing, I mean. Yuck.

- onehanded