Dear Elli,
It's no secret that sometimes I get a little full of myself. I think I'm pretty cool. And smart. And hilarious. And really just down right bad ass.
Hell, if I don't believe in myself, who else is gonna do it, right?
I was feeling that way yesterday. I had a great day at work. I worked on what has the potential to be one of the most complex, coolest deals in my career so far. And I rocked it. Hard core.
So I was feeling really pretty important. And I was on my way home listening to some Dr. Dre. I was pounding that shit like I had some 12's in the trunk, a set of spinning rims, and a Philly Blunt behind my ear. Not like I was in a small SUV with a stick figure family on the rear window and a pink car seat in the back. Even though that's exactly what I was driving.
And I was gonna rock dinner. And bath time. And bed time. I was pretty sure I was the most talented and capable woman on the planet. And the most bad ass. By far.
So I rolled into the driveway with you in the back, both of us rocking our most gangster sunglasses and still pounding the Dre. And I just know we were bobbing our heads in unison while looking out the windows with our most formidable mean mug expressions at the middle aged neighbor walking his dog who probably thinks I'm a terrible mother for letting you listen to rap music. That's definitely how it went.
Anyway, we strutted in the house and up the steps and when I turned to put my keys on the counter, I saw it. In the dining room. On the table.
The cat pooped on the freaking table.
Where we eat.
I'm not shitting you. (Pun intended.)
Well. That knocked me down a few pegs on the awesome ladder. And pretty much deflated my feeling of self importance as I disposed of the turd and disinfected our eating area. I kind of wanted to scream. And murder the cat. Brutally. Soprano's style.
"Who does that? Who poops on a freaking table? Especially MY table! Doesn't the freaking cat know whose house this is? And that cleaning feces from a table is wayyy below my unbelievably important and nearly perfect professional skill sets?"
The short answer is no.
The cat doesn't give a shit. Except for, clearly, on the table.
To her, I'm just the grunt that feeds and gives her water. And, today (definitely not yesterday though), I see the moral of this story:
Although I am undoubtedly pretty impressive sometimes (and very bad ass), I'm not too important to clean poop from the table. I'm just like everyone else.
How terribly sad. But true. And probably a valuable reminder. The world doesn't revolve around me. Even though I sometimes think it should.
I love you.
The Former Most Important Woman in the World a.k.a.: Mom
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