After we ate our gourmet breakfast, we went to the bus stop like we do every day. I chatted with the other parents, while feeling very smug about our Top Chef-like morning. I kept hoping one of them might mention how they had inhaled a granola bar because they were in a hurry—I was eager to share the fact that I, Mother of The Year (self-)Nominee, had made scrambled eggs, from scratch.
Sadly, the conversation did not naturally migrate in this direction. Nor did it absent-mindedly veer in this direction. Nor did it drunkenly crash into the highway divider of the topic What People Ate For Breakfast. No. I was forced to take drastic measures and completely hijack the conversation that these so-called “friends” of mine were having with one another, merrily discussing their latest Netflix preferences: “Hey! We had scrambled eggs for breakfast! From scratch!”
Sadly, my egg-cooking proclamation was abruptly overshadowed (or should I say, drowned out) by a big, fat, yellow, noisy school bus that appeared at just about this time. I slunk home, dejected and defeated. If you don’t get to brag about being healthy, then really, what’s the point?
I knew exactly what would cheer me up: a trip to Target. And, as luck and fate and the second Friday of the month would have it, today was The Husband’s payday. Yippee! I could buy paper towels, shampoo, kitty litter, AND look at all the new magazines!
I hightailed it over to The Altar of Target and spent a blissful hour (okay, who are we kidding—two hours) perusing each and every aisle. Then, after stocking up on everything and nothing, I decided to stop by my favorite coffee shop on the way home for a well-earned latte.
Around 11 AM, I returned to the house, unlocked the front door, and walked in. That’s when I saw it. I recoiled in shock and disgust, like someone in a horror movie discovering a dead body: dirty dishes everywhere!!! Three plates sat on the dining room table, caked in fossilized egg remnants. Three forks sat there, weary accomplices to the egg hardening. Three matching glasses mocked me, each blanketed in a thick film of un-rinsed milk. Toast crumbs clung to every surface, not sure of their role in the crime. I gasped.
The maid! The maid had not come today!
I was an emotional wreck. The 5 stages of grief thrust themselves upon me, like a mean dog that thinks you might have raw meat in your pocket.
- Stage 1: Denial. No, this can’t be happening. My house is not filthy. Maid will be here any minute.
- Stage 2: Anger. Damn Maid. I hate her!
- Stage 3: Bargaining. Please come back, Maid. We might actually pay you this time.
- Stage 4: Depression. Oh my God, my house is so dirty, I will never be able to have friends over again!
- Stage 5: Acceptance. Filth and squalor are not that bad. Friends are overrated.
I walked in the bathroom to wipe my tear-stained, mascara-smudged face. That’s when I saw her. The maid—she was hiding in the bathroom mirror!
Ha! I found you! I yelled at her, Get back in there and clean that kitchen!
She did what she always did when I got mad at her in the bathroom mirror: shrugged nonchalantly.
Next thing you know, Maid was upstairs. Vacuuming? No.
(“Maid’s On Vacation”)