Things I've Done With My Hands

This blog entry was inspired by Dawn French's one woman show, 

30 Million Minutes

I once picked up a cat and threw it down an air shaft in rage. Since that time I have made amends by becoming a collector of cats unloved and abused by the former likes of me. My hands have done many a thing, some things not so wonderful but mostly good things. That cat lived with only surprise and shock; no broken bones had it.

Once I tried to slap a man and another cat, -a different cat and time,- leapt up and scratched me good. It was so sudden and so obvious what the cat was doing that the man laughed, picked up the cat, praised its heroic efforts and went off with the cat cradled in his arms, like the lover I should have been. I slunk off feeling nothing but shame. I had been shown up by a cat. Nothing is more humiliating. A good lesson learned. My hands are things even cats have opinions about. By the way that cat, Jake, was my cat and not his...

When I was in my teens my hands spent a lot of time in my mouth. Too much time. I was forever chewing fingernails off the tips of my fingers. They were in there for breakfast, lunch and dinner. They were in there so much that once a man I was with asked me if I was retarded. It might have been a good question but people in their teens should never be asked such a thing because all it does it cause them to gnaw with a new found gusto. I couldn't keep my hands away from my mouth.

I thought about erasing the first paragraph you just read, and I would have had there not been a knock at my door just now. The man that entered had come for a visit. I asked him if he had ever done anything shameful with his hands and he replied that he had once killed a cat. He had not arrived for any meeting I was holding for those formally incarcerated for feline abuse, It was just one of those things that one gathers under "ironic".

I have tried to play the piano for years. I watch people play and I can not figure out how the job gets done. These piano players must be expert tummy rubber head patting people. My hands are not coordinated, I think. They do not like participating in events without the other. If I am honest I harbour feelings about my right hand that I do not feel for my left. My right hand seems only to be something that balances out my left side. It is useless in many ways. My right hand can not write and it can not hold a fork. I do not even lick the thumb on my right hand when traction is needed to turn a page. I point at things with my right hand for some reason which I never seem to do with my left. Every time I use a bathroom I am aware that there are entire cultures who would be up in arms should I break bread reaching for stuff with my left hand. I think of the various ways I might apologize and wonder if any excuse would get me eventually fed. I like to wash my hands in the same way one is shown when you get a job at a hospital. Believe it or not they say the process should take a good four minutes. When I enter homes and stores that require me to touch stuff I kind of feel and wish I could dress looking like this:

How I wish I could dress

I don't like touching things that unknown others have touched.

My hands are ethnically Italian if there is any truth that Italians use their hands more than others. I can't say for sure because it seems to me that most people involve their hands for emphasis when trying to make a point. Politicians us their hands in such demonstrative ways that often they can be parodied and mimicked. Barack Obamas' hands never seemed to point at us; they always seemed relaxed as though meditating. He always made his points, keeping his hands close to his body. Donny Trump on the other hand seems to be always jabbing at something. He has one hand gesture that I can not take my eyes off of.


I have never seen anyone make the
gesture before. It is the one where he brings his forefinger to his thumb resulting in a circle and the three remaining fingers are spread like a peacock. When he does it with both hands I can't help but imagine that his sexual techniques are rather dreadful and frightening.
His hands are distracting and that may very well be the point as he reminds me of the Wizard of Oz, Robert Ripley and P.T. Barnum all
in one body. I think he is a violent man and graceless in the sack.

My hands have baked many things. They have tested for doneness and poked rising dough. I have rolled and tucked my fingers under, making a fist, and punched that same dough down.

Once in the dead of night I lifted the covers up from my bed, inviting B to come snuggle with me. She had lost her way in the night and simply needed some coaching back to earth. The bed was warm and inviting and my arms around her made her feel safe. She once showed me a bump on her pinkie and explained all about it in case I was the type to stare at her hand. I never noticed it before so I think she must have had more feelings about her hand and the bump than I did. Her hands conducted all sorts of world class musicians and the funny thing about her hands, when conducting, was they were unlike any other conductor I'd ever seen. Most conductors are eager to be been seen raving from behind with their hands; their hands being the only thing an audience might see as being indicative of their enthusiasm. But B seemingly raised a hand once to say begin and her hands only showed up once in a while when a particular musician or section needed something extra. It was as if she trusted everyone to know what to do. Once she took my hand while we were driving, patted it, and told me that she felt happy with me. I patted hers back will we drove through the Vermont fall countryside.

My hands have palpated bodies searching for veins and ultimately blood. I like the way other people's veins feel and in some ways you could say I've developed a type of fetish looking for veins and drawing blood for little tubes. I like the way the warm blood felt in my hands as I bag it readying it for a lab. There is something intimate about entering someone else's body that feels sacred too and while intercourse may be a far more profound type of intimacy phlebotomy is intimate too. My hands like to do the dishes but they hate cleaning. I like to pet cats but I'm not too keen on dogs. I suppose it may be that dogs don't spend as much time grooming or it may be that petting a dog doesn't get the supreme response one gets from petting a cat. You pet a dog and you get a stalker; you pet a cat and you get to watch joy.

My hands have massaged bodies and felt the lumps of tension. They have touched the spots where purrs emanate from and they have made note where to return to. I have patted hordes of people on the back and hugged quite a few less. I like the distance of a handshake with those I don't know too well or who are prone to hugs that last that moment too long that tell me I am with the creepy. My hands want nothing to do with men who define themselves as feminist. They are all creepy as far as I can tell.

My hands like firm shakes, gloves rather than mittens and when my nails are long I like to tap on tables and scratch backs. I love to doll my hands up with polish, ring jewelry and hand lotion. I often wonder, when watching something cheesy on TV, why a back hand is considered worse than a slap? Having never successfully ,(see my attempt above with), done either I am unsure if one is more insulting or just packed with more power. I promise never to experiment. It's just a question I have. Where do people learn to slap one way or the other? Cheesy TV? Or at home?

I quilt with my hands and I love quilting but the stitchery needed has become almost too painstaking a task to take on. I have now touched two beards in my life. One was soft like butter and the other is rough and equally delicious. When I talk abut beards to my women friends I am shocked by how many leer backwards with a cringe and utter: Ugh! I've spent too many hours trying to figure that one out. Beyond reason if you ask me. Maybe it's just that I am looking at something else that matters to me more. Beards don't seem to be an item that has much to do with whether or not a relationship may or may not work.

I like giving high-fives to kids. They seem to get a real kick out of doing it too. The high five has been streamlined over the years. When I was wee we said: Slap me five! Then I noticed an evolution that included: Give me some skin, high five, a palm turned upwards, sent out from waist high to one that needed to be met just over one's head palm facing out. Hands are involved with all sorts of communication. I see those knitted up with worry scraping the side of a thumb or digging a hole in a pant leg. I see all kinds of worry and concern expressed in hands.

I have my father's hands and his hands had beautiful penmanship. I can't say my penmanship is as gorgeous, but I am most certainly happy that I can look at my hands and be reminded of my father. He's dead but his hands, in his daughter, carry on with the tasks at hand.