supermom strikes again

Dear Boss,
i was awakened last night by the noise of my adorable five-year old daughter practicing her linda blair impersonation for halloween. i stumbled into her room to find her head spinning around and the ravioli she'd enjoyed at dinner spewing from her tiny lips.

i quickly threw off my pajamas and donned my supermom cape (and tights) to swoop in and save the day...or, um, night. i deftly maneuvered the landmines surrounding her bed, plucked her from the mucky mattress and within mere minutes had her stripped down, cleaned up and re-jammied. as luck would have it (hers, not mine) my bed was otherwise unoccupied last night, so i laid her now feverish head gently onto a pillow and began haz-mat cleanup of the toxic waste.
Soon i too was re-jammied, cape safely tucked under my pillow for quick access; we slept.

The morning came like any other...after hitting the snooze alarm thrice, as is my usual routine, i awakened daughter2, who would have to speed-dress in order to catch a ride to school with the neighbor, as i happen to know she actually leaves the house on time (bitch organized woman that she is). shoving cheese crackers in a bag for snack, i heard a strange and ominous groan from within the bowels of the house...which gave me pause. i stopped, like an gazelle on the savanna, assessing the danger as it approached. supermom save me! cried daughter2. all i could make out from her tiny yelps as i tried to secure my cape was "toilet."

i found the great porcelain beast gushing like niagara falls. i reached under the spray and turned off the water valve as i called for help from daughter2: "run to the laundry room and grab me as many towels as you can." for a split second i mourned the freshly-folded towels sitting in a basket on the washer, as i knew daughter2, famous for her laziness and general apathy, would grab the first thing she saw. i took the armload of towels from her as she waded into the bathroom. "good job!" i praised her, she brought a good bounty. i tossed out the towels, unfurling them across the sea of sewage as something caught my eye flying from the fabric... what was it? ... ah, half-digested pasta... she indeed had grabbed the first towels she saw, those laying in a heap in front of the washer...ravioli towels.
now along with the flood, i had tiny pieces of vomit to pick out of the corners of the soaked baseboards...and also discover squished into the wood floor and between my toes (tights didn't make it this far).
As i worked in the bathroom, hauling heavy-soaked towels from floor to tub, a surge of self-pity welled up inside of me, trying to penetrate the steel-belted awesomeness of supermom.

my eyes taunted to betray me, the blurry sure-sting of tears threatened to break me. but i refused to surrender to helplessness.

i chanted my mantra:
you can do this.
focus.
heroes don't cry (in front of the children).
put on your supermom underoos and save the day.

so i did.

daughter2 is off to school. tiny linda blair is sleeping soundly and i am writing to you as my washer rocks with the third load of soiled linens.

anyway, i won't be in today.

signed,
employee

wednesday writing practice

i'm a people-watcher. actually, i'm a people-judger-story-maker-upper. i zero in on someone, watch how they're interacting, etc. then make up a story ... that i know is true, because let's face it: i know people. it's my gift.add it to the list.

like this:
it's wednesday night at chik-fil-a. a guy--about fifty--sits with two teenagers (girl and a boy). the girl has a salad and a book. she's tall, maybe 16; volleyball uniform. the boy is lanky, pimples...needs shampoo. he's got two chicken sandwiches that he eats still wrapped in the foil bag and shoves waffle fries in with the bites. the man sits at the edge of the table. he has a coke. he smiles at the boy, kinda. they say a couple words between the man scamming a waffle fry here and there.

you got it? sure you do: weekend dad, the later years. kids are getting too old and busy to make the weekends work, but they still do dinner together on wednesday nights, your basic standard visitation order circa 2001. probably been coming here for years. daughter used to climb in the playground while son and dad talked baseball stats.... it all started when dad left for his secretary, she's not around anymore. transferred. married. then dad got depressed, moved into an apartment. he drives a hyundai and says things like "so, how's your mom these days..ever ask about me?"

now here's one for you:
Chili's Galleria. Christmas Eve. about 4:30. a man sits alone at a 4-top table on the patio looking out onto the ice rink, which is packed with kids in bright red jackets. plaid scarves. he's drinking miller lite from a long-neck. there's an empty one in front of him as well. two plates with half-eaten meals sit across from him. there are chips and salsa on the table that he picks at. every once in a while a woman walks from rink-side to the patio railing in front him. she's a hottie. but not a pricey one. she has on red-plaid pants that she had to lay down to zip up. short black boots with spike heels and tiny leather ties on the ankle. an oversized gold cowl-neck sweater dips just low enough to catch his attention when she leans over and gives him that "please come out here" kind of look. on the rink, two little boys -- 5 and 7 skate to the plexiglass. they are not smiling. the seven year old reaches down to hold the little one's hand. they wait for the woman's attention. she shakes her head at them, gently. gives them the "go ahead and skate a while" look. they skate off.

..guess i kinda got a dudes sitting-a-restaurant vibe thing going on today. but that's your problem.

now discuss. comment. write.