I nonchalantly walked through the door, as I came in from the back deck.
“So, did you get it?” my husband asked me, feigning a concerned tone.
“Oh my effing God! I have NO privacy!” I shouted, as I slammed my 10x magnifying mirror and tweezers down on the kitchen counter.
He winced as usual, like I am a beast and unstable. I am NOT a beast.
I mean, I may LOOK like a beast at times, hence the outside break in the blazing sunshine to find that darn chin whisker that had been plaguing me for two solid days. I would sit and rub it absent-mindedly while working at the computer, wondering if today was the day that it was long enough to finally pluck. Pluck is not the right word. More like grasping the very end, and doing a wiggle-wiggle-move, so it extends out a bit more. This way, I can get a good grip on it to pull it out from the root, instead of having it break off and having to wait several more days for it to make an appearance again. When this happens, it sends me into a tailspin. And then I have a tantrum. This is where I put myself in time-out by going to my bedroom and slamming the door. I may have been a bit gentler in my tone, had I actually gotten the beast that was sticking out like the very sharp tip of a needle on my chin.
My PC had bogged down, yet again. I can only imagine what the Federal Investigators would think of me if ever they had to comb through my computer. What, with playing Swagbucks videos, MyPoints 5 point emails that I click on, mTurk data entry, searches for random things to earn money on various points earning toolbars. (My favorite is Qmee. It pays real live PayPal cash, and there is no minimum to cash out.) But anyway, as I said, my computer was getting slow, so I cleared the history and cookies and restarted my computer. This was the perfect time to tackle the beast within.
The most satisfactory feature of ditching my job and working for myself at home, is that I can tend to pressing matters right away. Like a mind-numbing whisker on my chin. When I have things to deal with that are this extreme or intense, I can jump on it right away. I don’t have to wait until I get home from a “real job” where someone I don’t like dictates my schedule. I don’t have to ask anyone, or let coworkers know about bathroom breaks so they can cover my phone, like when I am having one of my violent IBS induced diarrhea attacks.
Plus, I get to enjoy my grandchildren. I am using the word “enjoy” loosely here. Wait — I need to pray. (Lord, grant me the patience to endure my blessings. Amen.) I am able to babysit my grandchild on a moment’s notice. And still work. Kind of.
But sure enough, just as soon as the aforementioned IBS takes aggressive action against me, the grandchildren are standing outside the bathroom door of the MomsOffice “restroom” trying to pick (and sometimes succeeding) the lock, asking, “What are you doing in there? What are those noises? Can I come in? Ewe it stinks!” And so on, and so forth. Could you imagine me abruptly disappearing from the office at a “real job?” In my experience, the average 4 year old asks somewhere around 437 questions per day. And so does the average boss.
If I am lucky, I am left alone while on the commode. Commode! (Excuse me…I am like a 3th grader when it comes to toilet humor.) My father always called it the commode, much to my mother’s chagrin. And it always made me laugh. But I digress.
As I was saying, If I am lucky, I am left alone while on the commode. Only to discover once I coolly and casually emerge, that total chaos was erupting while I was in the throes of a violent diarrhea attack. They have been unwrapping my homemade soaps that my daughter-in-law made for me. Getting into the Christmas ornaments I have stowed away to sell on eBay. Just as soon as I put out THAT fire someone asks, “Hey Granny… Do you have any more of these stickers?” I turn and stare in horror at my bookcase behind my desk covered in about 40 USPS postage stamps. Someone else is asking for pepperoni and Ritz crackers and I turn yet again to see that it is the neighbor kid that is going through my refrigerator.
Eventually, my youngest daughter comes to (finally) pick up her kids and the neighbor kid goes home. “I don’t know how you did it, Mom. With the three of us kids, I mean. I can barely handle my two.”
“I don’t either. It doesn’t seem real.” I say quietly. She’s not even waiting for my answer. I am staring into space while Ashleigh rushes around picking up toys and tidying the whirlwind that ripped through my house. I am envying her youth and energy, and I am barely listening as she launches into another subject and goes on about how Beyoncé is part of the Illuminati. She is really into these conspiracy theories! She actually had me believing for a while that the Earth is flat. I stayed up all night Googling it, doubting everything I thought I knew. When I tried to explain it to my husband, he looked at me as if to say, “It’s time, Kim. We are going to The Home.” It sounded very convincing when she explained it to me. I have trouble with expressing myself sometimes.
So while she is explaining the Beyoncé/illuminate connection, my mind is wandering. I am thinking about how I’ve always been one to beat myself up and second guess every move and decision in raising our kids. And now, I think. “Wow, I think I did okay!” Everyone is still alive, they lead productive lives and entrust me with their own children.
But instead I blurt out. “I drank Ashleigh. I drank a lot of Kamora!” But she is not listening to me (thank goodness!) as she corrals the kids out to the car. As soon as the front door closed, I locked it, drew all the curtains and said dryly to my husband, “I’m going to go drown myself in the bathtub.”
As the tub is filling with Dr. Teal’s Foaming Bath that promises to “soothe your body, and relax your mind,” I look in the mirror and wish I had the fair and luminous skin of my daughters and daughter-in-law. I act like it just happens. Truth is, I am too lazy to adopt a skin care regimen. But I DO draw the line at whiskers.
Speaking of which, I finally DID get that beast. I got out a rarely used make-up brush, dipped it in luminescent face powder and “painted” the area. I saw a shiny speck protruding ever-so-slightly and went for it. There it was! I stood by my bedroom window with the afternoon sun and felt a tug as my tweezers clamped on. My hand started shaking in disbelief and excitement. I wiggled, paused, wiggled, and then let go to get a better grip. Wiggled and wiggled some more until it finally let loose. There it was! Of course I had to examine it thoroughly for length and color. It was quite long and bristly, (having a stiff and prickly texture) but not black as I had expected. It was blonde (or gray – whatever!).
After my soak in the tub, I triumphantly strolled out of the room, instantly in a better mood. Sat down at my computer and was finally able to fully concentrate for the first time all day. Feeling great satisfaction I rubbed my smooth chin while deep in thought about how I had an awesome day, and long night ahead, at MomsOffice.