My Secret Identity

Thanks to Sunday Scribblings prompt: “secret identity.”

To the casual observer I am a mild-mannered housewife. I’m not very good at it, though, so I’m surprised no one has figured out my true identity.

I stay at home and ignore spider webs and that thin layer of grime that has worked its way between the backsplash and the bottom of the window molding. I let credit card receipts accumulate on the kitchen desk and I pile up junk mail addressed to my husband, refusing to go through it on principle – I just can’t take my secretarial role that far.

I forget to pull the meat out of the freezer early enough for it to defrost in time for dinner. Real housewives don’t make mistakes like that.

When I work in the yard, I go out there in cut-off camo shorts, a T-shirt full of holes, and a faded baseball cap. If I were a real housewife I’d be in an immaculate sage-colored tank top, khaki capris, and a lovely wide-brimmed straw hat. I would make myself fresh-squeezed lemonade and take breaks to drink it with a tall glass of ice.

I make lists of chores to do, and then I ignore them. Everyone knows that real housewives don’t make lists of things that need to be cleaned, and if they did they’d cross everything off the list in a matter of hours. (For each thing I cross off, I add two more. If I do something not on the list, I add it to the list just so I can cross it off, thereby creating the appearance that I’ve achieved something productive.)

Real housewives might have those occasional hectic days when things are just slightly out of whack because one of the kids has an appointment with the orthodontist, and the other forgot to mention the cookies he needs for class. The next day those women wake up an hour earlier than normal and get everything back in order. I don’t even have kids to take the blame. If things are out of whack it’s because I’m unmotivated and uncommitted to being the perfect housewife.

Not everyone can be the perfect housewife. I suppose that’s the excuse I’ll use if anyone ever catches on to the fact that this isn’t who I really am. I’ll tell them that I’m not cut out for the home life. That I’m so busy looking for a job that I don’t have time to dust furniture or hang curtains in every room, much less take them down for a yearly cleaning and ironing. If they wonder why my yard is lacking in color, I’ll tell them I’ve been waiting for the chance of frost to pass before I plant my annuals. I’ll make all kinds of excuses, if they ever figure out that I’m merely acting and that this is all a façade. I’ll tell them anything. Anything but the truth.

The truth is that this mild-mannered housewife is just my secret identity. In reality I am devoted to a higher cause. All those hours that a real housewife would spend vacuuming and mopping and cleaning out her refrigerator are spent in training. Yes, it takes training to fulfill one’s destiny. And just what is my destiny? My higher cause? Justice! No, not justice justice. Other folks are getting paid to take care of that. I mean my own personal brand of justice. Justice must be served. I must right all those annoying little wrongs that shouldn’t raise my blood pressure, but do anyway. I’ll fight for truth, justice, and the type-A personality.

My first task as a superhero (cool superhero name yet to be determined) will be to use my super powers to track down the idiot who threw a chunk of ice cubes in my yard today. Yes, it’s ice. It will melt; it will do no harm. I realize this. But it’s wrong. You don’t walk into the middle of someone’s yard and dump your cooler. You don’t lob the chunk-o-ice from the street into their pine straw bed, right next to the poorly-performing azaleas. You just don’t do it. And that’s exactly what I’m going to tell this idiot, as soon as I find him (I’m 90% sure it’s a him). I’m going to yell at him (from behind the safety of my snazzy superhero disguise) and explain to him that his behavior is contributing to the decline of civilization. (And if it’s the neighbor kid from next door I’m also going to tell him to stop playing basketball at seven in the morning, and if he’s going to toss the baseball around by the side of my house, learn to catch.)

Next on my list (as a superhero, I will still make lists) will be to track down people who spit out their gum in parking lots or stick it under the movie theater seats and restaurant tables. I’m going to use my super powers to make them tell me why they do it, and then I’m going to make them realize that it’s just so annoying that they have to stop.

After that I’m going after people who don’t think cigarette butts are trash. I’m going to find out why they think it’s okay to flick their butts in the street and on sidewalks. I’m going to change their ways. I’m going to rid the world of cigarette-butt litterers. You’ll thank me later.

Next will be those punk-ass kids who wear their pants half-way down their butts. That’s just… dumb. I don’t want to see your tighty-whities. And you won’t be able to run from me when your pants fall around your ankles, so save us both the trouble and just go ahead and mend your ways now.

Shortly thereafter I will take on the daunting task of correcting people who end their sentences with prepositions. Where are they at? Where did you get that from? You’re just making things harder on yourself. And you’re making me cringe. Stop it.

After that… well, who knows? Maybe I’ll go after people who cut in line; people who get drunk and annoying at ballgames and cuss around little kids; people who make intentionally loud comments during movies; people who let their eight-year-old daughters wear heels; shoe manufacturers who make high-heels for eight-year-olds.

The list is growing. It’s right there, written in invisible ink right next to my list of things to do around the house. Things aren’t getting crossed off yet, but they will. You would be wise to check your behavior, make sure you’re not doing anything to put you on the list. Because when I finish my superhero training, my super powers are going to be a force with which to be reckoned. (Edited to relocate preposition.)

In the meantime, I better get back to keeping up appearances as a mild-mannered housewife. It’s time to handle dinner, so I’ll answer that calling for now. Take-out won’t order itself you know.