Friday, November 02, 2007

Day Two...

Today I am a bit earlier, but nonetheless pushing the envelope in getting my blog entry up.
This year, I made the Pledge - a decision to buy handmade.... With all the recalls and such, doesn't it make sense to either make something yourself or buy from someone who puts a bit of their heart and soul into something for you to enjoy?
It is not news that I am a HUGE proponent for Etsy and think the time has come to go back to handmade and skip out on most of the commercial junk that is out and about. I have kids, so I know that I won't be able to get away with this completely, but I am hoping by having them make their presents they will understand the need for handmade.....
Okay, off my soap box and back into my Fiction....

There are women that have it all together, look great right after having a baby, keep an immaculate house, have well-behaved kids, and volunteer for everything. That's Casey. The worst thing about her is that she's also a truly nice person. So, you can't even hate her!
This is why my life is a shambles. I want to be like her. I know I have no hope in hell to be even close, but I can dream. It's why I always say yes to all her requests. At least I'm not alone in this. Half the town scrambles around trying to be like her and failing miserably.
After Jim left the kitchen, I snapped up the cordless phone and did what any woman would do in my position. Call and complain to my best friend, Liz.
Liz and I met at the Library eight years previous, toting our infants to a Mommy and Me class, desperate to get out of the house and let someone else think of activities for a half hour. I saw her, her frizzy brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and shuffling in with her chubby baby boy in an infant carrier and a diaper bag bursting at the seams. She plopped down next to me and my precious little girl, clad all in pink. I felt superior for a moment until my daughter spewed milk all over her nice outfit and, of course, me.
"Oh Crap!" I muttered. My illusions shattered.
Liz laughed and pulled out a cloth diaper and started blotting the spit up from my pants. From that moment on, we've been inseparable. If the phone rings in my house 99% of the time it's Liz. The same goes in her house. We go everywhere together and our kids love each other. Our husbands hide in the basement on Sundays and drink beer and watch ESPN. I think they really just want to get away from us hens.
On the second ring, Liz answered. "What did Casey get you to do now?"
"I hate it when you do that." Really, how did she know?
"You don't call until after the Morning News unless Casey called and enlisted your help again."
"Okay, smart butt, what do I have to do?"
"Let's see... It's mid-October and she needs help. Must be the wrapping paper fund raiser."
"How did you know?"
Liz laughed and kept me hanging.
"Spill, woman... and stop laughing!" I commanded.
"I saw a note about the orders were coming in next week in Jake's school folder yesterday."
Jake was Liz's eight year old boy, and he was betrothed to my Olivia, who was also eight.
When I didn't answer right away, Liz continued. "I take it you didn't see the paper."
"I have yet to wade through all that stuff. With three kids, I swear I must get 50 pages of junk to look through." Liz only had the two boys, Jake and Jason and the youngest was just three.
Me, I was a regular baby factory. Three kids in three years and I was truly hoping I wouldn't ever get pregnant again. My body was already unrecognizable.
"So, you want me to help out?"
"Of course." I knew I never had to ask, she'd do it, just as I'd do it for her, but it made me feel better.
We spent the next half hour complaining how things never get done, both avoiding the obvious that if we got off the phone we'd get more done.
By eleven in the morning, I had cleaned up the dishes, put away the laundry, swept up the floor, and consumed three cups of tea. I was ready for the rest of the day - or so I thought.
In the bedroom, I sat down on the bed and it felt nice and comfy. I laid down and the next thing I knew it was one o'clock.
"Oh, crap," I yelled and ran into the bathroom to shower. In a half hour I was supposed to be at Casey's house to pick up the order forms to go over. Within fifteen minutes, I'd showered and dried my hair. I slapped on a layer of mascara and fluffed my hair. It was passable, but not even in the same solar system as Casey was. Looking at my clothes, I grabbed a t-shirt and jeans. I sucked in deep and buttoned the top button, and adjusted my shirt so that bulge wouldn't show.
One day I hoped to be half as together as Casey I mused as I raced down the suburban streets to her development. I slowed down since I always got lost in there. All the street names were dumb like Honeybee Court and Thistle Way. The houses all looked the same and I had to watch the house numbers on the mailboxes to make sure I found number 1403.
Casey's Lexus eggshell SUV gleamed in the pristine driveway. It was the perfect accessory to the brick faced colonial with hunter green shutters and a beige front door. The brick walk was abloom with fall mums and other shrubs and plants. There wasn't a weed in sight.
Once again, I compared my weed infested front yard to hers. I hated feeling like a did. My jeans were too tight and I looked like a harried mom. My life sucked.
I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.
"Come in," I heard Casey yell.
Through the clean beige door I went, taking in the gleam of the hardwood and the formal living room to the right. Not a knick knack out of place, no dust bunnies in the corner, no toys lingering on the stairs.
"In here," Casey's voice called from the kitchen.
From down the hall I saw the counter, all shiny and uncluttered. As I got closer, I sensed something not right. A cabinet door stood ajar. Silly thing really, but I had to make myself feel better somehow.
I came into the kitchen and saw a different scene than I could have imagined. Casey sat at the table, immaculately groomed and sipping a cup of coffee. It all looked normal if you discounted her husband on the floor in a pool of blood with a kitchen knife sticking out of his stomach.

1 comment:

World Champ Stephen Neal said...

A real bead lover would only be drawn to glass.