Thursday, August 30, 2007

Who are these women?

You know the ones. They always have their act together. Perfectly coiffed, accessorized, Starbucks in one hand, double stroller in the other. Just get off work and after taking a mini version of themselves, only with bows, to the lesson for the day, they run home to whip up a souffle before reading Pilgrim's Progress to the baby at 8p.m. just in time to get a foot massage from their metrosexual, stunningly hot GQ mate. Can't forget that this uber-woman also has a teenager who gets straight A's, never talks back, has talent scouts knocking at their door for elite universities AND manages to volunteer at all the right charities. Whew, I'm wiped out just thinking about it.

I'll tell ya where all these women are. They've been at the Back to School nights this week making me feel like I'd just stepped out of the pages of the Mosted Wanted fliers at the Post Office! Me? Black t-shirt decorated with white cat hair and guacamole. Hair in two ponytails that had long past their 'cute' moment somewhere around 9:30a.m. when I slammed on the brakes for someone who obviously felt that turning should be accompanied by a full stop with time to consult a map. In the middle of a highway! No make-up at all. Lost that coming home from a friend's house because my air in the car putzed out on me. Well, maybe a teensie bit of make-up. Mascara, making me look like a flesh eating zombie in a B-horror movie.

Not only do I look a fright. I manage to completely mortify my daughter by suggesting we ride our bicycles to the school rather than dealing with the parking. Smooth move I thought, as I licked my fingers and slathered my cowlick back into submission. We're coasting down the sidewalks, narrowly missing recycling bins and elderly women helping their even more elderly mothers out of the car, no problem right?

Only I'm not the greatest at riding a bike. It requires physical movement and my big behind on a seat that really is a joke. Who thought a little black triangle with no padding was a good idea anyway? Maybe Lance Armstrong with his biking buns of steel.

There's a speed bump on the little road leading up the back way to school and when my daughter zooms over it, I fly behind her, hit that bump and feel the ghosts of pregnancy hemmorhoids past threatening to make a comeback. My butt burns, my lungs burn, my cowlick is doing a good impression of There's Something About Mary, but at last, we get there.

I march my huffing, puffing self in to the cafeteria and my daughter take a look at me, sizing up my obviously lacking appearance. I'm sure I didn't imagine her taking a small sniff near my armpit region and she takes a few slow steps away. Towards a pretty, perfect Mommy figure. When I scoot over towards her, she hisses at me that she's dying of hunger because I didn't exactly get around to putting a nutritious dinner on the table beforehand and the high fructose corn syrup laden excuse for a granola bar I had handed her a 1/2 hour earlier had long since passed the sugar crash stage leaving me with a pre-teen attitude machine.

All eyes are upon us and I just have to wonder how do they do it all? They just look, well, just so. Ya know? Administration is not my gift. Chaos seems to be my natural bent and while I know routine is good for me and my children (as my beleaguered hubby often throws up his hands at our impromptu picnics around the coffee table with card games), but darn it, I'm just not wired to have all my ducks in a row at one time.

I was relieved to find out that most of the teachers seem not only competent, but normal looking with the odd wrinkle on a dress shirt, tousled hair, wonky lip liner or bless their heart, one of them even looked to have a ketchup stain.

I felt better riding my torture device, um, bike back home to my imperfect house with my imperfect yard and finding my hot, but most definitely imperfect husband unloading the groceries I was too lazy to get out of my car earlier. Sure, my teenager talked back and did NOT volunteer to do the dishes. She got drafted to do them. My pre-teen balked at being offered real food (tacos are real, aren't they?) instead of a tattoo-tongue dying fruit roll, but she ate it.

Going to bed, I paused by my son's now empty room. Wishing for a chance to yell at him to turn his stereo down, but knowing that he was probably at school playing video games with his roomies when he should be doing his freshman seminar homework. At least he calls when he needs something. And that's something.


I am still NOT packed to go the Creative Escape, but I'm darn sure READY to go to Creative Escape. They sent us chipboard travel journals. After a summer of barely a moment spent in the studio space, I finally hauled myself down there to do a little decorating on mine. Imperfect, sure, but it's something. And I like that something.


3 comments:

Heartinmyhand said...

There is a great quote and I don't remember who said it "Always be a first-rate version of yourself,instead of a second rate version of someone else. It has taken me many years to try and live up to this. But I have finally learned that I don't give a crap what others think of me. And by the way my teenagers talk back to me

Anonymous said...

HAHAHAHA....this is why I have STOPPED attending those darn Back to school nights. I even sent my daughter's teach an email telling her it was too determental to MY self esteem, sanity and general well being to attend...she wrote back to say that she wishes she could skip it as well...so just who are "those" mommies impressing then away???? Cris Zocchi

Kim said...

Where have I been? Somehow, I've forgotten to visit, to my own detriment. LOVED this post, Casii. I am right there with you, girlfriend. At the end of a work day, even though I work in an office, I usually look like I've spent the day on a construction site. The first comment, by heartinmyhand, is so true. And if anyone is a FIRST rate version, it's you. Forget what others may think. You make great art. You love kit houses. You are funny. You have a way with words. You are the best Casii I know.