Painful though it is to admit, even the most 80s of 80s movies can't help but invoke in us (is it just me?) the desire to have that small little bit of attention paid when we hit "Working Girl" mode. No longer am I just the Mom on the Couch in Yoga Pants and Flannel Shirts; now I'm that mom who has to drag her lazy, coddled ass out of bed before the sun rises; that mom who has to scan closet contents with a close eye; that mom who has to shun her husband's side of the closet (with all its fuzzy, warm, oversized shirts) and instead dwell on all that shit that's been wrapped in dry cleaner bags for 6 motnhs; that mom who actually has to plug in her damned flat iron and/or hot rollers in the feeble hope that these styling products will imbue her with an air of panache, flair, and professionalism.
Once the makeup is applied, the appropriate attire has been donned, and the hair styling tools have been utilized in less-than-professional methods, it's time to either take something out of the freezer or throw something in the crock pot, feed the animals, double-check doors and windows are closed and locked (or at the very least, left slightly ajar so that there are no surprises at the end of the work day), kids have all the money they require as well as signed paperwork, gas, and any nurturing/fashion advice/encouragement they may need/ THEN it's time for the first cup of coffee that is slugged down while jockeying for position on one of the many interstates leading into Kansas that have been closed down in an horrific methodology that defies logic in even Third World Countries (run on sentences, I believe, aid in illustrating the bullshit that is my daily drive).
And then there's 9 hours of a work day. For me, it's fantastic. I really do feel blessed in this new position I've attained; this is an office full of fun, smart, fantastic people who make the days go by quickly and who are eager to share their knowledge in order to help me help them. Really, I love it.
But then the work day ends. Throw the traffic jockeying in reverse (with a major shit show occurring at the bridge into Missouri... which I avoid with an insight that seems to be astonishingly simple), and commence Re-Entry. Normally Re-Entry entails racing into the house and rushing to the nearest bathroom, followed by a jog upstairs to relieve myself of the confines of office clothing so that I can wiggle in to flannel, yoga pants, camis, and warm fuzzy socks. Personal comfort achieved, it's time to start dinner, start laundry, start analyzing school days, share tragedies and triumphs of the work day, feed the animals, clean the kitchen, sweep the floors, sort through the mail, shower, pack breakfast and lunch for tomorrow, and then, at some point, indulge in a few minutes of idle reading.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not bitching... Merely providing details. Were I to bitch, I might say something like, "When I got home today, there was a kid sacked on the couch and my husband was cleaning his guns on the family room floor so he could go shooting on Sunday." OR I could say, "I anticipated the smell of Chicken Tikka Masala to greet me at the door today, but instead I smelled gun oil, overdue litter box, and teenager." OR I could say, "Once showered and enrobed in yoga pants and flannel, I emerged from the steamy, herbal-scented bathroom and was greeted by the scent of gun oil and teenager." Now THAT would be bitching.
But who likes bitching? Let's instead focus on the scent of clean laundry that now mingles vaguely with the scent of Chicken Tikka Masala/Gun Oil/ Overdue Litter Box. Let's instead focus on how fantastic I feel in knowing that tomorrow we will all have clean undies and full bellies. Let's focus on how straight those guns are gonna shoot on Sunday. Let's ignore the litter box for another day and instead rejoice in knowing that I've assembled a breakfast and lunch for my work day that will provide energy and power to my body and my brain.
Did I mention the scent of gun oil?
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