It's Tuesday morning. The key in the lock turns once and the back door opens with a bang.
The house is unusually quiet. As soon as Sam iAm goes up the stairs he is engulfed by a scent of things baking, mixed with Chanel.Very promising.
- I'm back, is anybody home?-
Time to put the luggage on the floor ( three weeks away is a long time), and from the bedroom comes the hoped for reply (and call of the jungle) :
- I'm over here, don't even stop by the bathroom, get naked!-
24 hours earlier.
As soon as the last of the girl has been dropped off at school, Mamaspice goes back to the crime scene. Three weeks ago everything seemed to be working. The house wasn't shining, but it wasn't a dump either. What happened in the meantime? She knows the answer to the rhetoric question:
life happened!
The first thought in her head is to burn the house down with all the evidence.
Then she decides to fix it. No matter how. And soon.
It's only 24 hours to Sam iAm's inspection.
On a first assessment here's what she gathers.
The fridge is empty. The emergency fridge is empty too. So is the pantry.
The car trunk, or emergency pantry, is empty as well.
There's a thick layer of dust under the wreckage.
(The wreckage.
Upstairs. About two dozen Miniponies lie abandoned on the floor, all looking exceptionally groomed; with them, the remains of a series of sleepovers: pillows, sleeping bags, camping mats.
Downstairs. Imagine the after show at Dolce and Gabbana's: nail polish bottles, used make up, radioactive and mismatched socks, empty Nutella jars. You get the picture).
The bathroom bears the seals of the San Francisco Crime Scene Investigation. There is a bucket under the sink that needs to be emptied every four hours. What used to be the faucet is now laid in the tub, waiting for an autopsy. The crew has been brushing their teeth in the kitchen for at least a week.
To protest against a bathroom that didn't want to cooperate, Mamaspice abstained from cleaning it during the whole ordeal.
The toughest job though will be hair removal from own body.
20 hours to go.
Fridge has been packed. Bucket has been emptied. Miniponies haven't been moved.
16 hours to go.
Each girl has been collected from : ballet, piano, soccer, gymnastics.
Miniponies have not been collected from the floor.
12 hours to go.
Girls in bed. Dishes yet to be washed. Hair yet to be removed.
Miniponies dangerously close to the trash can.
10 hours to go.
Too late to vacuum (it's midnight), not to late to sharpen a razor blade.
9 hours to go.
Mamaspice finally lies down in a pool of blood. All night she dreams of scalping galloping ponies with a butter knife.
4 hours to go.
Dishwasher, vacuum cleaner, toaster and frying pan, have been simultaneously activated by Goddess Cali' Mamaspice.
Must fill lunch boxes. Four lunches plus four snacks. Not two alike.
Mandrake Mamaspice finally manages to shove everybody into the van.
Somebody is still wearing their pajamas (Mamaspice); somebody has pockets filled with bacon.
15 minutes to go.
Back home. After the bed has been made, the vacuum cleaner has been hid, the bucket has been emptied and the bathroom door has been locked, Mamaspice is forced to use one of the oldest tricks in the book: quickly chopping an onion and throwing it in a 400 Fahrenheit oven. It will smell delicious and will lead anybody to think that some cooking has been done.
2 minutes to go.
A truck is parking in the driveway. Mamaspice is desperately trying to remember where she put her honeymoon lingerie or, in case she can't find it, the french maid uniform.
Looks like just a few drops of Chanel will have to do this time.
She makes for the bed like and Olympic sprinter, trying to settle a racing heartbeat under the covers.
She can hear the key turning in the lock.
- I'm back, is anybody home?-
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