Thursday, March 18, 2010

How Handy

I like hands. Most every pair.  Unless you're a man with dainty fingers. *shivers*  Hands tell their own story and are unique to each person, which is why I dig them so much. 

Take my father for example, ye ol' sausage-links or his "Jimmy Dean's" as I call them. His fingers simply don't taper.  It's strange.  If I cut them up (sans nail and bone) and threw them in a frying pan with some eggs... 

Moving on to an unrelated story, in sixth grade I helped prep lunches for elementary school kids and worked with a petite and lively Italian lady who stood at 5 foot nothing.  It was quite possible that I was slacking off on the job so to jump start my work ethic, she grabbed my impishly youthful hands and rubbed them up and down on her palms saying to me, "Feel these?! These are the hands of a hard working woman!"  And friends, it was like skimming a Brillo pad.  I wanted to ask, "Lady, do you exfoliate your hands with a cheese grater?" Anyway, I've never forgotten that.

Actually, this was just a piss-poor excuse to show off my new paint job. Thanks for humoring me.


  1. OMGsh!! Where did you get that profile picture?!?! That is classic of how I remember you! Poor sweet Amanda,,,,talk about a swan now!! :o)

  2. Yes, it was a rather, *ah-hem* humble time for me?! But mom said I was sweet-spirited. Whatever that meant.

  3. Love the glasses! Oh yeah, love you too!

  4. Amanda, Amanda. Mom was always saying nice things like that. It's code. She said similar things to me. Totally sidestepping the issue, which was, I was COMPLETELY funky looking.