Writer/Snacker: That's Me!

I like to think of myself as a writer.

Not because I can actually write, but because it's the only thing I do besides housework, Facebook, Pinterest and napping.

Oh, and snacking.

I'm a snacker, too.

But the writer in me has fine-tuned my observation skills.

I see things with a sharper eye- I survey things more critically than the average writer/snacker.

For example:

Yesterday I was behind a young lady as we both entered WalMart.

She had hair from a Hairstyles magazine, leather knee boots (that probably set her back a paycheck), jeans that cost more than $75 dollars, and she wore an expensive scarf around her neck (that looked as though a gentle puff of wind had lovingly placed it there as an afterthought.) (Gag me. Please.)

Topped off with a classy jacket and some sweet dang-ly jewelry, she was nearly perfect -(if you can even accurately measure those sort of things).

But she didn't have me fooled one bit. No sir-ree.
The writer in me saw through her obvious disguise.
Something was definitely up.
Big time.


Why did I think that, you say?


Well, first off- because this woman was holding onto a two-year old and pushing a baby stroller.


My second clue was that no real mother has flat abs, a single chin, and the patience of a saint when she has a five month old who barfs up curdled milk like a cottage cheese river bursting through a toothless dam and whose other kid walks as slow as a zombie and whines like a day-old puppy.


Who did she think she was fooling? It was laughable, really. But why she hadn't done sufficient research on being a mother admittedly had me puzzled.


So, being the writer/observer/aging super hero that I am, I decided to confront her.
I nudged the heel of her Victoria Beckham boots with my rusty shopping cart, and she quickly spun around- ready to pump a few rounds of curse words into my suspicious little brain.


She had Daddy-Long-Leg lashes, silky peach colored skin, and lips that her plastic surgeon must have injected with the fluff from a king-sized down pillow.
And she was getting ready to flap them my way.


"Hey, Lady- better watch what you say- I'm up to your tricks. " I told her, pulling down the wire cage of my too-small bra and wiping the remnants of a chocolate donut off of my face, "You and I both know that there's no way on this planet that you are a mother. Why the disguise?"


She was speechless.


 I imagine she wasn't expecting to run into a writer/snacker in WalMart at 6 am on a Tuesday. My powers of observation had her completely frozen in disbelief.


"Girlie," I told her, trying to remain calm and somewhat polite,"the clothes were a dead giveaway. And the jewelry... and hair ...and all the other La-Dee-Daah stuff you pranced in here with today. Mothers wear comfortable clothing, never get their hair combed before noon, and constantly live with baby vomit on their shoulders. They look like a two ton truck just hit them, smell like strained peas and peaches, and are perfect candidates for a innovative program of weight-loss magic. They wear sneakers with grass stains, sweats with the drawstring missing, and a face that hasn't seen cosmetics in 18 months!"


Her eyes got as big as as the head on her preppy little boy -and she pushed her way off into the aisles of Great Value and Nabisco... and disappeared.


I suppose I'll never really know what ulterior motives she had for that day. Perhaps my keen and subtle confrontation stopped her from following through with her evil plan.


So, I did what I originally came to WalMart for (before the distraction)- and grabbed a basket of snacks and hurried back home to my computer.

Then wrote about my observations.

Because I'm a writer/snacker.

And that's what I do.