Todd is a handsome thirty-two year old construction supervisor who works with my husband. Todd is also an exceptionally talented self-taught craftsman. He was hired by our neighbors, Kendra and Rich, to renovate their second floor as a side job.
Mitsie lives across the street from where Todd is toiling. We all live on Church Street, which sounds very proper and demure. Mitsie’s eighteen year old daughter and several girlfriends took notice of the “hot guy” sawing on her neighbor’s front lawn. They liked his blondish hair and his well-developed tattooed surfer arm. If a guy like Todd had been working in my neighborhood when I was eighteen, my girl gang would have found many reasons to cruise up and down Church Street for views. We may have even feigned that we were lost (on my own street) and asked the hardworking man for directions.
“Who’s the hot guy on the Colburn’s lawn?” The girls asked Mitsie.
“Oh, he’s Marty’s friend, Todd. He’s fixing Kendra’s upstairs.”
Mitsie started to refer to Todd as “Hot Todd.” The name stuck. Kendra followed. Yeah, Hot Todd is almost finished with the mouldings—they look great! Hot Todd is coming over again tonight—I think I’ll make spaghetti for him. Hot Todd is so nice.
A few Sundays ago, Mitsie walked across Church Street with her seven year old twin boys to enjoy a glass(es?) of wine with Kendra and let their boys play together. Todd was stationed out front, bent over his power tools. Mitsie asked Todd about his interest and availability for a project at her house. Todd agreed to come take a look. She called her twins to leave.
“Why?” they complained.
“Because “Hot Todd” is coming over to look at our fence.”
Her wine glass almost slipped from her hand. She used the other to cover her mouth, which was now surrounded in deep crimson. She bolted back inside and fell on the couch, enveloped in cringe. Her boys looked at Hot Todd curiously. Kendra retreated to her kitchen, feeling her own cringe coming on.
Like most good dirt on Church Street, the story traveled. Mitsie called me to confess the cringe the next morning. I told Marty who got a kick out of it, and promptly teased Todd at work. The legend of Hot Todd (and his phone number) traveled with the story—there was a cute, reliable guy available who could fix things. Church Street was abuzz.
Many on Church Street attended our annual Ryan Fourth of July shindig, as well as Todd. The ladies took cover from the 100 degree swelter in the air-conditioned kitchen. Their red solo cups were filled with wine and even deadlier concoctions like iced-tea flavored vodka (very tasty and refreshing - by the way). When Todd entered the kitchen, he was met with the giggles and shouts of tipsy suburban mavens—teenagers-times- two (or 2 ½). He was greeted as “Hot Todd” and women who hadn’t met him gasped, “Oh…you’re Hot Todd!”
Poor Hot Todd let out a pained cringe, quickly fetched ice for his drink, and escaped outside to the scorching heat.
Mitsie lives across the street from where Todd is toiling. We all live on Church Street, which sounds very proper and demure. Mitsie’s eighteen year old daughter and several girlfriends took notice of the “hot guy” sawing on her neighbor’s front lawn. They liked his blondish hair and his well-developed tattooed surfer arm. If a guy like Todd had been working in my neighborhood when I was eighteen, my girl gang would have found many reasons to cruise up and down Church Street for views. We may have even feigned that we were lost (on my own street) and asked the hardworking man for directions.
“Who’s the hot guy on the Colburn’s lawn?” The girls asked Mitsie.
“Oh, he’s Marty’s friend, Todd. He’s fixing Kendra’s upstairs.”
Mitsie started to refer to Todd as “Hot Todd.” The name stuck. Kendra followed. Yeah, Hot Todd is almost finished with the mouldings—they look great! Hot Todd is coming over again tonight—I think I’ll make spaghetti for him. Hot Todd is so nice.
A few Sundays ago, Mitsie walked across Church Street with her seven year old twin boys to enjoy a glass(es?) of wine with Kendra and let their boys play together. Todd was stationed out front, bent over his power tools. Mitsie asked Todd about his interest and availability for a project at her house. Todd agreed to come take a look. She called her twins to leave.
“Why?” they complained.
“Because “Hot Todd” is coming over to look at our fence.”
Her wine glass almost slipped from her hand. She used the other to cover her mouth, which was now surrounded in deep crimson. She bolted back inside and fell on the couch, enveloped in cringe. Her boys looked at Hot Todd curiously. Kendra retreated to her kitchen, feeling her own cringe coming on.
Like most good dirt on Church Street, the story traveled. Mitsie called me to confess the cringe the next morning. I told Marty who got a kick out of it, and promptly teased Todd at work. The legend of Hot Todd (and his phone number) traveled with the story—there was a cute, reliable guy available who could fix things. Church Street was abuzz.
Many on Church Street attended our annual Ryan Fourth of July shindig, as well as Todd. The ladies took cover from the 100 degree swelter in the air-conditioned kitchen. Their red solo cups were filled with wine and even deadlier concoctions like iced-tea flavored vodka (very tasty and refreshing - by the way). When Todd entered the kitchen, he was met with the giggles and shouts of tipsy suburban mavens—teenagers-times- two (or 2 ½). He was greeted as “Hot Todd” and women who hadn’t met him gasped, “Oh…you’re Hot Todd!”
Poor Hot Todd let out a pained cringe, quickly fetched ice for his drink, and escaped outside to the scorching heat.
Thanks for reading The Weekly Cringe. If you are not yet on my email distribution list, please write to me at weeklycringemail@yahoo.com. Thanks, Tracy
Poor Todd. I know what he's going through.
ReplyDeleteYes, Matt. You were always the Hot Todd on Fifth Floor Hughes....
ReplyDeleteWho do you think had a Hot Todd in your old neighborhood?
ReplyDelete