Get The Monkey Off The Blinds

The scene is set. You have spent all day cleaning. The playroom is as tidy as it has ever been, the happy, happy kid music is quietly playing in the background and you have turned on the lights. The window is open a crack as to let in the fresh air and the floor is gleaming after the bleach and water treatment it received earlier that day. You go upstairs, fix your hair, put on some make up and even some perfume. You look at your shirt, smudged with food, particles of Play-Doh and snot and realize it will never do. You search through your closet for something, anything that is clean and does not have a crew neck. Ah, there in the back it sits - a shirt that actually has buttons and a shape. You put it on, take a second look in the mirror and off you go. You have just set the mood for your dance of seduction. Your hot date is about to arrive momentarily. You just have enough time to find one or two Leap Frog toys to bring into the living room. But damn it, you should have remembered to change the freaking batteries. Oh well, another toy will have to do. You are exhausted. You spent every extra second of the day (after making two snacks, lunch, changing thirteen diapers and refereeing circle time) cleaning your house. You tell yourself you just need to keep smiling for one more hour and then you can lose that uncomfortable shirt, pull a beer out of the fridge and order pizza.

The door bell rings. Before you run to open it you hike up your pants, give your shirt a tug and curse at yourself for never losing that ten pounds you promised yourself. You turn one last time to give your kids the look of "death will be cast upon you should you bug your sister even once during the next hour" and you open the door. And then your heart falls into a spiral so fast that it takes every ounce of your being to keep that smile pasted on your face and extend your arm for the hand shake.

How is it that every now and then you can spend twenty seconds with a family and know in your heart that this could never, ever work out? Regardless, you don't want to be rude so you continue. You feel like a Primerica pyramid worker luring their clients into promises and a feeling of a secured future that you know is never going to happen. What you really want to do is just stand up, tell them it will never work and be done with it. Hey, your beer is probably chilled by now too. Damn it. But alas, your sense of courtesy encourages you to continue.

As you sit there with the parents answering their every question and trying to concentrate on the task at hand your peripheral vision is a constant nagging source. Nagging, because out of the corner of your eye you can see their seventeen month old pulling on the strings to your very expensive blinds. You want so desperately to go over to the child and admonish him for being so forceful. But you can't. The urge is so overbearing it's almost intolerable. You race through the contract, address any questions and stand up. This is your signal that you are done. In the most polite way any ounce of what's left of your civility can muster you tell them that's all you have and they can call you if they come up with any further questions. And then you just can't control yourself any longer. As if in a dream state you walk over to the child, take his hand away from the blinds and start walking him to the door. You simply can not get these parents out of the house fast enough.

You finally get them to the door but mom with her Pollyanna attitude is still bobbing her head frantically at everything you say. And if she smiled any wider you swear her face would swallow up her whole body. Why in hell does she think you are so fantastic? You keep smiling as she tells you that "she will call you to see when they can bring over the contract". In your head you are doing a Homer Simpson and wondering how long it will take for Bell to change your number and to list and sell your house. Because, there is no way in Hell you could ever accept these people, with their monkey climbing kid and bobble head mom into care. Nope, nada, ain't happening.

Finally, the door shuts behind them and you are so utterly exhausted after that fraudulent display of theatrics you just demonstrated that you can barely get to the fridge to find that beer and call for pizza. Oh, but then it hits you. Tomorrow you have the day off. Suddenly, the clouds part, the sun shines on you and you find the strength to get to the fridge.

For concerns, advice or suggestions I welcome your email at judytrickett@yahoo.ca