My every move is monitored these days. I'm under complete surveillance- my tone of voice, my eating habits, how I like my eggs, the way I load my dishwasher, my Tide-stick-from-handbag reflex, and my half-naked, tippy-toe trips to the laundry room. I know what you're thinking: my mom moved in. Nope.
Think global. Potential international relations implications: I'm hosting a foreign exchange student. And during the wee hours of the night, under the cover of darkness, reports detailing my actions and habits are relayed via Skype to Frau X. And Frau X, like any other mother, loves her baby, and wants to be sure he is in good hands.
There are certain requirements one must meet for hosting a foreign student. I must provide wi-fi, a private sleeping area, a decent selection of video games, unlimited mini-corn dogs, Pop Rocks, a skateboard, CNN, and toilet paper. But that only scratches the
But dammit, I'm completely jacked up on Starbucks, dark chocolate, and Diet Coke, because it's Go Time for the next three weeks I've got Frau X's son in my care.
Bustier with shiny, waist-high blue granny undies: check. (Already in wardrobe. Long story.)
Invisible airplane: in the works. (Iffy.)
Red cape: check. (And doubled checked, to be sure it's not tucked in my blue underpants.)
Wonder WoMom metamorphosis complete. Time for action.
Get this: yesterday I actually set the table for breakfast. For breakfast! Wuh? I know, right? Who even does that? Wonder WoMom under surveillance, that's who, sisters.
Wait, there's more.
Then I set a stick of butter on an unchipped plate. And... wait for it... placed it on the table, next to a neat stack of waffles. Fine, they were Eggo, but Frau X doesn't know that.
My kids always thought butter worked like a glue stick without a cap. They freaked at the formality. Heads turned. Eyes squinted. Jaws dropped.
And when I set a bowl of fresh raspberries on the table, their gazes of butter stick wonderment turned to faces of w-t-f-is-going-on-here horror.
And there was more. I tossed out sh*t like:
"Does anyone have any laundry they'd like me to do?"
"Should I cut off the crusts?"
"I'm going to iron for a while."
"Should we take a bike ride together?"
"Mom, are you, like, running away to Vegas? Is this the last meal you're serving us ever? I mean, you're giving us raspberries that aren't even in Pop Tarts. Seriously, it's like you went to that Farmer's Market Day thing or whatever it is. Are you okay? You can't leave. We just got a foreign student."
"Don't be silly, boys!" I said in shaky June Cleaver-ese. "We don't want our guest to think we're not civilized. Now get dressed for church. Skadaddle."
Three weeks. Damn. Even with a red cape, bungee cords, and two cases of Red Bull, I'm not sure I can fake it that long.