WONDER WOMAN

I was longing for the Huntsman.

But fate sent me Wonder Woman.

Scene. The basement. 33 hours before: Pre-Prom pix and appetizers -at our house. Post-Prom set-up -at high school. Post-Prom -at high school. Post-Prom sleepover/breakfast - at our house.

No need to remind me, dear Reader, that I am over-the-top, delusional, or unable to utter the word "no." Truth is, we have a party house. And it's not my fault that my soon-to-be-grad decided to have four years worth of high school parties in one night.  

Back to the basement. The concrete floor is covered with gorgeous  brown-paper murals - scenes from The Wizard of Oz. Avoiding breakfast, Youngest Child dashes downstairs to see what Big Sis painted as he slept.

The first shriek is thrilling: "It's the wizard!" 

The second shriek is chilling: "What's that noise?"

That noise is the sound of a creek rushing. A fountain spurting. A waterfall gushing.

A pipe bursting.

The third shriek is the shout of a crazed woman, "Get towels!  Get buckets! Get this scenery OUT OF HERE!"  

Septic. Systems. Stink. Literally and figuratively.

And who buys a house in the country, anyway?

Rewind to Wonder Woman.

I admit it. I have, at times, fancied myself to be a Wonder woman.

For instance, people often whisper behind my back, "I wonder why that woman never sits down?"

And I often whisper, wonder, mutter, cry-out, "Why does the universe hate me?" Or, better yet, "Who owns my voodoo doll doppelganger, and why does he/she keep sticking it with hat pins?"

Which brings us back to one of the most peaceful, lyrical, mesmerizing sounds on earth. Unless it's in your basement.

Sir Plumber eventually arrives, assesses the hole atop the copper pipe and the gurgling water. "Call septic services," he dictates. "I'll replace the pipe once you get the rest of this figured out."

If you're reading carefully, you'll note that I mentioned the concrete basement floor. It used to be carpeted. Before I knew that I had to call the septic truck once a year.

Who buys a house in the country, anyway?

No need to doubt me, dear Reader. In the five years post our Basement-Rug-Torch-and-Burn, Septic Service Dude has arrived with his coiled, sludged, stinking hose - exactly one year after the date of his previous visit. May 28th, 2011, he accepted my $300 check and said, "You don't need to do this every year. Your tank is big enough to make it a couple years. Happy to take the cash, though."

Say it, dear Reader! Remind me that I am a trusting, dopey, fool!  A trusting, dopey, desperate fool - who fate sent Wonder Woman.

She arrived in an enormous truck, and backed expertly down our circular driveway. I glimpsed her blonde hair and gorgeous face as she tucked her bangs into a barrette and hopped off the truck.  

Of course I was thinking, "What is that woman doing in that truck?" Of course I was thinking, "Phew. Now I have an excuse to cancel the prom parties, because that woman will never figure this out!"

I'm not proud of such bias. But I am capable of it - especially when elaborate, filthy, about-to-explode-septic systems need to be fixed. In ten minutes. By a girl who looks like she might have been Queen of the High School Prom - last year.

As you know, I like stories. I wanted to know hers. So as Wonder Woman digs and pulls and drains, I ask how she came upon this line of work.

"It's my boyfriend's company," she says. "He was super busy, and one day he painted my name on the office door. The next thing I know, I'm driving a truck."

We chat about my predicament: guests soon to arrive, cookies to bake, groceries to buy, flowers to plant, floors to scrub, punch bowls to sparkle, paintings to blow-dry. She takes the shovel from me and tells me to go flush. Twice.

I dash upstairs, downstairs, then return hopefully to the tank - and a concerned Wonder Woman. The righteous sound of rushing water is nowhere to be heard.

"There's a clog," she says gently. "Take me to your basement."

I do not cry. Because I am in awe.

Stepping over paint, sponges, glitter and glue, I lead Wonder Woman to Disaster Point. Silently, she makes mental notes of pipes, pitch, drainage. "Call the plumber," she says. She takes the phone, insisting that Sir Plumber return to our house to snake the pipes. I eavesdrop, hear snippets like, "they need water...guests.... inflow...sewage pouring on the floor."

Plumber is too busy. He tells me to call Roto-Rooter Man. Roto-Rooter Men will try to stop by over the weekend. Wonder Woman eavesdrops, looks me in the eye, and says, "Tell your husband to rent an electric snake. He can fix this in a minute."

She knows. She has figured me out. She understands that I have never even heard of an electric snake.

"Please!" I plead with her. "Wait ten minutes till I get the snake, and then you can show me how, where, why..."

"Sure," she agrees. "It is the prom, after all. I don't want you to cancel your party."

I arrive home in fifteen minutes, with a piece of machinery that should be called an electric anaconda. I hurry back to the tank, and find Wonder Woman wiggling a garden hose out of a drain pipe.

"You're all set," she says. "I jimmied it for a while, and the clog broke free. Have a great time at the party."

Mechanic. Engineer. Innovator. Angel. A brilliant, insightful, ingenious, cool, considerate, Marvel of a Lady gets it done.  Makes it happen.  Kindly and competently.

 

If I wasn't old enough to be her mom, I'd want to grow up and be just like Wonder Woman.

Heck, I bet she likes wine and beer.

I wonder if she'd like to come hang out at our house. Be the left brain to my right brain.  Help me fix stuff, understand stuff - spackle, grout and shine stuff.  

Who needs a Huntsman? I want Wonder Woman.

Someone find her and tell her I painted her name on my front door.

QUING Hereby Decrees: When your Help Wanted sign goes up in a hurry, an angel never fails to answer the call.