The hired men

Mon, 03 Apr 2000 16:00:00 +0000

As I write this, two good-looking and soft-spoken Brazilian men are making hash out of my kitchen. The sounds of a ripsaw and of splintering wood fill the air, and my cup of tea has sawdust in it. I have taken refuge in my office, along with my daughter, who can't wait for the afternoon kindergarten bus to come and whisk her away from the shrieking of the saw and the roar of the power nailer's compressor.

I can't complain -- we have, after all, hired these guys to liberate us from the disreputable old vinyl flooring we inherited from previous owners and install the beautiful maple we bought with our children's inheritance. They seem to know what they're doing. But I am fundamentally uncomfortable because, frankly, I am wracked by guilt every time I hire "help."

With these gentlemen my uneasiness is compounded by a virtually impenetrable language barrier. The guy in the flooring showroom with the plummy Yankee accent has given way to my newfound friends with their lovely but -- to me -- unintelligible Portuguese. "How's it going?" I ask, slipping into the not-yet-ripped-up part of the kitchen to get a cup of tea. "Little English, sorry," says their apparent leader, adding "Good, good."

Mothers who kick butt

Tue, 11 Jan 2000 17:00:00 +0000

My new accessories are beautiful -- red and white, with a slightly pebbled, leathery finish and a sharp new smell. I am ridiculously pleased when I slip them on and fasten the straps. They feel bouncy, sexy, outrageous. It's the same feeling that new sneakers always gave me when I was a kid -- I just knew that I could run faster, jump higher and fly like the wind as soon as I tied them on.

But this time it isn't new shoes I'm admiring. I've just bought myself a pair of boxing gloves.

My husband and kids are still trying to figure this out. Hell, I'm still trying to figure this out. I'm the family peacemaker. I'm the one who forbids our son and daughter to have toy guns and Power Ranger figures, or to watch Angry Beaver cartoons on television. I'm the one who thinks football is too violent, who won't let even the 11-year-old watch "Batman" and who refused to make toast for a week after the kids nibbled it into gun shapes to shoot at our two cats.

So they aren't sure what to make of it when they see me lovingly pack my boxing gloves into my backpack when it's time for sparring class, or watch as I carefully dry and air them, their inner padding impressively sweat-soaked, when I get back home from kickboxing.

Salon.com > Nancy W. Hall

The hired men

Mothers who kick butt