death of a superwoman

This one is for anybody who has ever commented about what a Superwoman I appear to be... I hope you're all happy now.




Liberal Collegeville, The Midwest (AP) - In a surprise ending to a fairy tale story, the Rotten Correspondent is in stable condition at a local hospital after several of the balls she was keeping in the air came down unexpectedly and struck her repeatedly in the head. Emergency Room physicians predicted a guarded recovery but insist on being on record as saying that her juggling reputation may be damaged beyond repair. One disgruntled hospital coworker, who spoke on the condition of anonymity, said that the accident had simply been a matter of time. "All you had to do was look at her to see that she couldn't walk and chew gum at the same time. Who started this whole superwoman thing, anyway?"


Who indeed?


I asked myself that Sunday night at 11:58 when I suddenly stopped slamming my head into the keyboard trying to come up with a blog post for that night and remembered that I had until 12:01 to pay the car insurance or they'd cancel us. I raced down the stairs carrying my slice of pumpkin cake in one hand and the fork in the other, because I knew if I left it sitting there I'd come back to an empty plate and a dog with nutmeg breath. As I ran through the dark dining room I tripped over a fat (black) dog and hurtled into space, cake flying one way and my arm with the fork jerking backwards and ending up close enough to my ear that I almost re pierced myself. Stepping on the cake on the way into the kitchen, I collected the bill, the phone and my credit card and made the payment. Or thought I did. After a couple of minutes of plugging in numbers and following prompts from a voice straight out of The Stepford Wives, I thought I was home free. Until...the computer declined the payment because it was now 12:06 and you can only make phone payments if your policy is current. By that point, of course, we weren't. I believe the legal term is uninsured.


I asked myself that at 7 am Monday morning, standing in the disheveled remains of the room that looked slightly like my kitchen. The counters were covered with dirty dishes and half eaten food, and there were wet dish towels all over the floor. Someone had spilled a big puddle of chili on the stove top sometime Sunday night and had never cleaned it up, so there it sat, hard and crusty. Surfer Dude had accidentally exploded a concoction of vanilla pudding, chocolate chips and...what was that third ingredient? Oh yes...A METAL SPOON ...in the microwave Sunday while I was at work and the microwave was full of tacky brown pudding and glass shards. The kids had no clean clothes for school and I couldn't find any water bottles for lunch boxes. The entire microwave had to be cleaned so I could warm up spaghetti for lunches. Everyone needed a shower but all the towels were dirty. Gumby sat at the dining room table frantically doing math homework he had denied having all weekend, blissfully unaware that, in an hour and a half when he left for school, he would forget to put the completed sheet in his backpack and it would sit on the table until his loser of a mother noticed it four hours later.


I asked myself that an hour later when my butt was plopped in front of the computer goofing off and trying to figure out how long I could sit here before I started cleaning up my various messes. My only consolation was that the Film Geek, who is officially home to stay as of today, was going straight to his office and hopefully wouldn't see the whites of my eyes until I had dealt with everything. Cue the sound of the back screen door slamming and the sounds of "Honey, I'm home" wafting through the house. I got up, forcing myself to look productive, and climbed over the piles of debris in the kitchen to welcome him home and prove, once and for all, that I manage just fine when he's gone for weeks on end.


I asked myself that when, after one errand followed by another all afternoon, I picked Sasquatch up at school and allowed myself to get so sucked into teenage boy melodrama that I forgot to go to the grocery store to buy anything for dinner.


I asked myself that around dinner time when the desperation chili I had put on to reheat burned like a charcoal briquet while I was picking up Gumby from French class. I could smell it before I even walked in the back door. I threw a whole bunch of sour cream and shredded cheese on it and served it anyway. Surfer Dude wrinkled his nose and started to say something, but then saw me mouthing the word "microwave" and made like a smart boy and hushed. Note I didn't say he ate it, but he hushed and scrounged something else for his grub.

I asked myself that when I finally went upstairs to lay down with a book and couldn't find my pajamas, which for me is yoga type pants and a tank top thingy. After tearing my room apart, I found them. I was wearing them. And had been...all day. The whole time I was doing errands, the entire time I was sweet talking the insurance agent and while I was in the bank making the deposit. Pajamas. Thank god I don't sleep in a negligee. Or worse yet nude.


So... I think it's finally time to let the whole Superwoman myth go. The whole ball juggling, kid wrangling, bill paying, cookie baking, narcotic pushing, honey voiced combination of Martha Stewart, Rachel Ray, Pamela Anderson and Heloise fantasy is kaput. Gone. See ya.


If you remember correctly, I told you right from the beginning not to believe a word of it.