There isn't much that gives me a bigger high than laying the smack down on a case -if you're new around here, I'm a litigation paralegal.
That's a big girl job if you'll ever find one. It means I'm smart; I can handle the mean, the nasty, the nitty gritty, tedious mess that is litigation.
So imagine the virtual flight I've been on this week when I turned 15,000 inconceivable pages of "omgwtfbbq" On a four year old case, into a ten page, ass kicking, "show me the money" brief, so damn good, my boss shook my hand. Trust me, my boss isn't shaking hands freely.
If there is ever a moment I feel like I'm winning at this "adulting" thing, it's then.
So I go home. Big woman at the office, hear me roar. I was running on full batteries, the ultimate multitasker; talking on the phone, starting the washer, preheating the oven, supervising Mino's homework - I had the Eagle eye.
But clearly not enough.
You see, that's when Nelly showed up, hands covered in...
That is not...
I immediately directed the stinky offender to the restroom, where said poo was still floating, free of toilet paper.
And his undies were up.
But never fear, because mom is here, and if I can tackle that legal brief, I can handle what was in these briefs.
I remained calm, and told sir skid marks to remove the offending garments, and prepare to be hosed down in the shower.
I had this.
Man, oh Man, and then.
Shit, on my towel.
Not the baby blue fishy towel for designated destroyer's, - I mean children's - use.
My good towel.
The fluffy one.
covered in the yucky stuff.
And I - me, still in my silky pink blazer and the $100 slacks - had shit on my foot.
Big four year olds who eat everything I eat? They shit.
I don't care what kind of big girl job you have, shit on your foot will humble you.
So I may be pretty awesome at my job right now, but at home, I'm not too good for just about anything.
And that's alright.