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Ever notice the magnetic draw that a puddle of water has on a child?  It’s as if they have absolutely no bodily control over their little legs when they’re in any proximity to a puddle; like they’ve been possessed by an extraterrestrial pull that compels them to test the waters.

Doesn’t matter what type of cesspool they come into contact with.  A child doesn’t discriminate:

Little puddle?  Check.

Big puddle?  Yes, please.

Muddy?  Even better.

Covered in green sludge?  Sweet Jesus, like hitting the motherload.

There is no hesitation.  There is no time to think about the new shoes they are wearing, or the mud that will splash on their pristine dress clothes.  There is no self-restraint, nor a moment of regret in the aftermath.

Why can’t that be me?  When did I lose that inhibition, that spirit of freedom, that reckless abandon?

You know what today is?  It’s “Taking Back Tuesday,”  so I’m tacking back my childhood self.

It rained all day like Noah was about to set sail.  I’m sure I can find a nice, deep, hopefully warm, and definitely clean puddle to jump in.  (No cesspools for this grown woman.  I’m just too old to get past the green sludge.)

I’m going full speed, two-footed, and regret free.  Cause it’s “Taking Back Tuesday,” and that’s how I roll.

This morning when the elevator doors opened to our department’s floor, a wash of hot, sticky, lifeless air smacked me in the face, and I immediately broke into a full body sweat.

It’s only May.

Clearly, Houston, we have a problem.

There is no way in hell five women, one of them in the throes of menopause, will ever be able to hack the spring and summer months in this kind of heat.

Someone needs to fix this STAT!

A desperate phone call was made to the heating and cooling repair people.  I’m sure it apprised the appropriate men folk of five hot, miserable, bitchy women in trapped in distress.

(Enter the chivalrous HVAC repair technician clad, not in a cape, but in a short sleeve uniform with his name stitched on a patch over his heart.  I can’t say that I’ve ever owned such a costume of my own.  Never worked in a field which required a name patch.  I think that a name patch is a certificate which also grants you permission to wield power tools.  Kind of like a license to carry a weapon.)

I’ll admit that maintenance of any kind is well beyond my purview or area of expertise.  If I can’t fix something with one of three “tools”:  a butterknife, a roll of duct tape, or the heel of my shoe; then I’m admittedly outmatched. 

For example, I spent much of one morning with a co-worker trying to “fix” a wobbly table with: business cards, paperclips (used in lieu of rebar), and duct tape.  The business cards and paperclips were out of my tool comfort zone, thus our efforts failed.  Two men and a tool belt fixed our woes in about 18 seconds and a lifetime of shame.

Rather than try and climb into the duct work and give the air-blower-thing a once over, a man with proper tools and training did the job. Of course when his mission was accomplished, and the grunting and scratching had ceased; this nice, little fellow with the patch wanted a little “atta boy” from the ladies.  He opened his mouth and proudly detailed his work.  I think he made mention of “dropping a tranny” or trying to “use a 3-ton compressor for a 5-ton job.”  But he’s just a technician and it’s not his call.

I think that we were supposed to commend him for his work at this time, but “the ladies” just looked at each other like he was speaking in tongues.  You remember how Charlie Brown’s teacher spoke?  It was similar to that.

We mustered up a cute, sing songy, “Thaaaaaaank yooooooooou” through our dumbfounded expressions, just hoping it would be enough to get him to stop talking.  He wasn’t but a step outside of earshot we all said in unison, “What the —- did he just say?”

Silly men.  They never have anything important to say.  Now, where were we?

“Where did you get those shoes?  I LOVE them.  I could EAT them.”

It’s my fourth week of “Taking Back Tuesday,” so I’ve decided to institute a little media blackout this evening for the sake of my own mental and emotional wellbeing.  I’ve been catching myself watching way too much evening news coverage, both local and national broadcasts AND a perpetual refreshing of mobile CNN and the Pittsburgh Post Gazette online, and I think I need to shut it down.

(By the way, “SHUT IT DOWN” is my new favorite saying.  I picked it up from the boys on Gold Rush.  All those clueless men alone in Alaska without the careful supervision of their wives, they were always shutting down their operation for one reason or another.  I’m just surprised their wives didn’t “SHUT IT DOWN” before the jackasses got started on their testosterone fueled adventure.  Maybe they were just happy to have them the hell out of the house for a few months.)

Focus, Molly, focus.                                                                                  

I’m shutting it down tonight because the evening news is a big, fat 6:00 p.m. buzz kill.  I am unable to detach myself from the trauma, tragedy, travesty, and the triviality of the goings on of others.  It takes me away from my own locus of control, and from those that I love and care for.

I’m shutting it down tonight, because I find myself wanted to adopt every neglected and abused man, woman, child, and animal that flashes across my screen.  I am not a Hollywood starlet, or even a Pittsburgh starlet, so large scale adoptions are not quite in my financial portfolio…

Because I don’t HAVE a financial portfolio.

I’m shutting it down tonight because I talk about people I don’t even know wAAAAAAAAAAAy too much.

I’m shutting it down tonight because, unfortunately, tomorrow night will bring a whole new trail of tragedy that I cannot control.

I’m shutting it down because that which I can control is calling for my attention, and tonight I’m going to answer.

SHUT IT DOWN.

I know how I’m answering. It’s me versus my sister-in-law Audrey at

http://www.sheknows.com/parenting/articles/958149/mom-blogger-face-off-would-you-bring-a-nanny-on-your-family-vacation

Can you guess who has FOUR boys????

So, I sit on this fantastic neighborhood board, chock full of fine, upstanding professionals and community leaders whom I very much admire.  I’m the newest board member, so my friendships within the group are still relatively new.

Last night was our monthly board meeting, a little slice of “me” time that I treasure and very much look forward to attending.  I feel good about making my neighborhood a better place and being an invested, engaged citizen; it’s kind of my thing.

After dinner I headed out to the meeting with my next door neighbor.  We meet at a quiet, local pub perfect for a bit of casual conversation and some getting down to business.  Some of the other board members were already cozied up to the bar.  My neighbor and I greeted our friends with the requisite slaps on the back, glad to be seeing one another again in our familiar haunt.

When the president of the board, a notoriously affable man with a penchant for an ill-timed, harmlessly inappropriate commentary spun on his stool; he met me with words I just wasn’t quite armed for.

“I saw you naked on Sunday.  You might want to close your curtains in your front room.”

(silence……….)

Honestly, this was playing out like a bad dream sequence; you know the one where you show up to work without wearing any pants.  Much to my chagrin, there was no waking up from this pants-free party.  There was no exit strategy.  He knows where I live and naked is naked.  You don’t mistake naked.

And I was naked on Sunday in front of my window–stupidly naked for all the neighbors to see.  I’m guilty as charged.  Guilty of believing that my home is my impenetrable fortress of privacy, like the guy in the car next to you who is digging in his nose like he’s the Invisible Man or something.  I didn’t think twice about running from the laundry room to the upstairs bedroom au natural.  I was in my house, my castle, my bunker, not some den of sin.

Needless to say the curtains will be tightly drawn from here on out.  The neighbors will think that our family is cloistered in mourning, or selecting the next Pope.  The pres is officially the last person who will ever catch an unsuspecting glimpse of me in my birthday suit.  Next time you drive by, I’ll be the nun in the window in the wool turtleneck and matching burlap sack behind the window tint.

Thank God I’ve been working out.