How to Get a Man’s Attention

Copyrighted by Lorna Tedder. Originally published in Crimes to the Third Degree.

So. My 16-year-old daughter and I discovered today how to get a man’s attention. Lots of them. Without even having to shower or hike up our skirts.

Flying By Night novel

We’d been re-designing my front yard, and some jobs just can’t be done with a chainsaw. No, you really need an axe. A big one.

So off we go to the hardware store after I can’t find my axe and have no idea where to look for it and it’s too dull anyway. As usual on a Saturday, the hardware store is full of men of all ages.

Last time I was there, two men struck up a conversation with me simultaneously, and the subject matter was their arrest records and how much time each had spent in jail, but that was my fault. I had mistaken the artwork on one man’s arm for a Norse god and complimented him on it, only to find out his tattoo was based on a drawing he’d seen on his favorite brand of rolling paper.

I didn’t see any ex-cons today, but then, I wasn’t really looking either. I was there on a mission and without the slightest concern for running into eligible bachelors. I was hot, sweaty, hair pulled into a ponytail, braless, bare legs, and wearing my 13-year-old’s T-shirt she gave me that was too big for her. It’s the shirt that says THE LAST THING I WANT TO DO IS HURT YOU BUT IT’S STILL ON MY LIST. I got paint on it last fall while re-decorating the hallway, so I tend to wear it when I’m into manual labor around the house. But today, I didn’t even think about the slogan when I pulled it over my head and headed for the garden.

So Shannon and I found what we needed right away without any assistance from any of the 50 men in the store (and one woman behind the cash register). We grabbed some huge hedge clippers while there, which Shannon carried even though they were bigger than she is, and I found the perfect axe, though it too was a little big for me when I threw it over my shoulder.

By the time we reached the front of the store and waited in line with a dozen or so men, we had the attention of every single one of them. One of them remarked to my daughter about the oversized blades in her grip, “You know how to use those?” to which she answered disgustedly that she did, without retreating into her foil-fencing stance. Most of the other men had read my shirt by then, and I thought a couple of them would follow us home.

What is it that makes a man drool when he sees a woman with a sharp weapon, whether it’s stiletto heels or an axe?

“You got anything bigger than that?” the man behind me asked with a snicker and a gleam in his eyes.

“You bet,” I answered. “My chainsaw.”


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