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Sarasota firemen rescue MC and her cats!!!

Two kind of drop-dead, gorgeous, sexy, and sweet firemen just left my house.

MC (in the middle) with firemen in Boston (during a city-wide scavenger hunt that just happened to involve getting a photo-op with firemen. Yes, I was the mastermind behind the scavenger party!)

MC (in the middle) with firemen in Boston (during a city-wide scavenger hunt that just happened to involve getting a photo-op with firemen. Yes, I was the mastermind behind the scavenger party!)

Okay, they left my driveway, but still … it was very close.

One call was all it took and voila, I had fulfilled my longstanding fantasy of having not just one, but two, firemen rushing to my aid.

Um, how many ways can I spell “I’m all hot and bothered?”

Anyone who knows me well knows I’ve got a major jones for firemen. I’m not much of a sex-symbol kind of gal; I could care less about typical lust-inspirerers like Clooney and Pitt or any other boy toy-ish men who might be fodder for most women’s fantasies.

And, honestly, I’ve never actually fantasized … not in THAT way … about firemen, either.

It’s just, well, I have a thang for them.

I’ve got a thang for them because contrary to my wicked independent ways and contrary to my cocky “I can do it myself” attitude, I apparently, have a deep-rooted desire for a man to swoop in and save me. I didn’t know it until today, really. But there it is, I’m a woman and I want a man to take care of me. Oh good lord, I’m going to regret writing that in about five minutes!

But I admit it. At least today. Flush with the heady allure of having two firemen within kissing distance.

Okay, so why’d they come to my house, you’re wondering?

Well, I was sitting at my computer, minding my own business, when I heard a giant-sounding truck rumbling down the street. Normally, I wouldn’t care, but my cat Coco, jumped from beside me (she was sitting next to the keyboard) and ran to the living room with a scaredy-cat look on her face. A big truck right then rumbled by the front of my house and somehow managed to pull down some wires from the poles as it passed by.

Quicker than you could say “get me a fireman, please!” one of the gigantic (and no, I’m not prone to hyperbole if that’s what you’re thinking) wires fell from the pole area, across the driveway (perilously close to my poor little car) and then landed on my metal mailbox, splashed across my hapless Confederate Jasmine Minima plants and then splayed across the roadway in front of my house! Talk about drama!

My eyes were as big as my cat’s. The fur went up on her back … seriously! (It stayed down on mine, thank you very much.) But for some reason, the two gigantic lizards that were sunbathing on my mailbox didn’t even seem to flinch.

Well, I called the county call center just to report it, and they directed me to the sheriff’s office, and they connected me to someone else and I told them what happened and said “It might not be an electric wire, but I’m not sure,” and they said stay away from it, we’re sending some one.

And boy did they.

Send someone, that is. Two someones. Two very hot and botherable someones.

I could hear the siren well before the truck rolled up toward my house (a siren? for me??). Two ridiculously buff and cute and sexy firemen descended from the red truck and approached with debonair caution.

I couldn’t contain myself and ran out to greet them. “Sorry to bother you guys,” I said as non-flirtatiously as was humanly possibly considering the fact that I’d taken the time to put on fresh lip gloss and donned a fetching hat and adjusted my tank top all in the four and a half minutes before they’d arrived. Oh, and I’d brushed my teeth too. I’m not kidding.

I’m that crazy.

About firemen.

They said it was no bother. They investigated my house and another house and then whispered things into some secret, cool communication device on the front of their shirts (kind of like secret service men do with their wrists), apparently telling headquarters it was all clear and nothing more than a crazy cat lady afraid of a little hot wire.

I tried not to flirt, I swear. But I did. “It’s so nice of you guys to come out for something like this. I appreciate it.”

I can’t say they flirted back, but they were sure nice and very sweet and um, okay, way too sexy for 4:30 in the afternoon. And I’m supposed to go back to work after this?

Well, it all turned out to be a silly cable wire. And they did take the time to explain to me which wires were which so I’d know in the future and they did say that it’s better that I called because how was I know to know it wasn’t some live electric wire that could electrocute those pesky feral cats that come into my yard and chase my birds and catch my snakes?

All too soon, they packed up and left the scene. I slunk back to my computer keyboard, wondering just what in the heck had come over me.

See, the thing about firemen isn’t that I am hung up on bedding one — honestly! — I’m not that kind of girl. I swear!

it’s just that I’ve never met or seen a fireman that didn’t strike me as sexy and scratchy and strong and competent and funny and did I say sexy and most importantly just seemed like they could handle any of life’s little emergencies and that they’d never blame a woman for turning into a scaredy-cat little girl over a little wire crashing down in her front yard.

They just seem like the kind of men who’d give a woman the shirt off their backs. And never keep score about it. They seem like the kind of guys who’d rescue a woman from any kind of mess she’s made of her life, wipe away her possibly irrational tears, and then go out in the backyard and fire up the grill and fix her a big steak and pour her a glass of ever-so-slightly chilled red wine and then say, “C’mere, ya big baby.”

Yes, they’re sexy, but in a serious, I can take care of you kind of way. I don’t think I’ve ever been honest enough in my life to admit I want that.

Anyway, I’ve decided just this minute, to hell with my “I can make my own way in the world,” yada yada yada crap — I want a man! A man who will give me the shirt off his back. A man who will always be prepared to rescue me … even when I say I don’t need it.

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Posted on June 11th, 2009Comments RSS Feed
7 Responses to Sarasota firemen rescue MC and her cats!!!
  1. […] Proof that if MC Coolidge’s house ever burns down, it might be an inside job: She writes about her love (”lust” might be the better word) for […]

    Reply
  2. John W. Perkins
    June 12, 2009 at 9:39 am

    I have a fireman outfit from last Halloween.. You don’t happen to have a French maid costume, do you ?

    Reply
  3. I don’t know about costume, but I wear a French maid uniform nearly every waking hour.

    Reply
  4. Mary, just be a little carefull. Firemen have the highest divorce rate than any profession.
    Just lookin out for ya.

    Reply
  5. Susan M. Kinsella
    June 12, 2009 at 8:42 pm

    I hope you somehow sent this to your local fire department. Sigh… I’m still hoping for someone to take care of me. The older I get, the less guilty I feel about that!

    By the way, fine writing!

    Reply
  6. Okay, to hawkeye2you — no worries — i think i have a jones for firemen in a metaphorical, wishful kind of way… not looking to remarry anytime soon! but thanks for the advice.

    Susan — thanks for reading — and for commenting. hope all is well up in beantown!

    Reply
  7. Also stay away from anyone who has a dog named Odis who has a fantasy jones for one Beantown Beauty!

    Reply

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