S C R A T C H
I can only imagine the thousandth mark I am creating on our wood floor as I pull, scoot and swivel my giant Hannah Rocker across the living room. I park it perpendicular to the chair, where Jeff is fully relaxed and lounging. I flop my knees across the arm of his chair and my bare feet and legs land in his lap.
He cuts his eyes at me but continues to focus on the movie.
My feet flap back and forth as I beg,
GENTLE AND MEEK WOMAN, I am not.
A gaggle of teen boys pour into my house, displaying evidence of a fun evening at a muddy festival.
I have read books and seen movies about those perfect mothers that can clean mud off clothes, so my lips spew the words,
"Put your clothes in this basket and I'll wash them for you."
As my brain goes wide-eyed, with shock, and throws an angry laugh,
"What do you know about cleaning mud out of nice clothes?"
HELOISE WOMAN, I am not.
But I am stubborn and determined....
A friend invites me to a "girl's night out" of mani/pedis, girl talk, wine and massages.
I hold my tongue as it struggles to say,
"You just described my hell."
I politely decline and wish for an evening of bourbon or scotch in a small boat, watching the sunset on a lake, listening to Frank Sinatra, with my legs flopped over the side, toes digging an anchor into the muddy bank.
GLAMOUR MAGAZINE WOMAN, I am not.
Although I might give up toes-in-the-dirt, if I could walk around like Salma Hayek!
I need to get a Jedi that walks a few steps ahead of me, waving his hand as he uses his Jedi mind trick, "this is not the woman you are looking for."