Caution the Detective

My sister wants to know what job I want should I have the opportunity to be the show, Secret Loves Lives of Soccer Moms. The answer was law enforcement, but then another sister told me I wouldn't get past the physical training. Okay to that. Maybe I could get promoted right away to detective?


I have proven again and again that I am wonderfully talented in the mystery realm. Buy me a gift? I'll know what it is before you get the thing wrapped (unless, of course, it's a multi-year Waltons collection. That one came as a surprise.) Want to ask me to marry you? I'll know you should do it before you do. Submit a plagiarized essay to me? I will track the original source and you down lickety-split. Trying to have sex during my class? I'll figure it out about the time you round second and head for third. Whew! I'm clever and insightful.

So there you have it, my secret dream job. Need more evidence? How about a little synopsis of a recent mystery I solved right here in my house.

This year I caught most every stomach bug known to live in my state. I also invested heavily in some manufactured in other states and those which had been outsourced. Stomach distress catcher extraordinaire, I was. But the question was why?

Could it be that poetically named ailment which taunts me and forces me to drive well over the posted speed limit on occasion, irritable bowel syndrome? I think that moniker is so gracefully named, I've thought of using it somewhere else. Perhaps as a name for our house? Can you see the welcome sign: "Welcome to Irritable Bowels." Maybe we could even get featured on the next Tour of Homes in our community (which has disturbingly ignored our neighborhood since we moved here....)

The mystery? Yes, that's where I'm headed here.

One day I was standing in our bathroom contemplating cleaning it. Just contemplating.

In walked a striking 6 year old who proceeded to slam the toilet seat up and (use your imagination here.) Just as he finished, before his pants had even been pulled up, he noticed that his fingers were wet. So, in one smooth move, he reached to this towel and dried them.

Okay, fine. Yuck. He then predictably washed his now dry hands and left the room without ever acknowledging that:

A) I was in the room,

B) That the towel was now covered with urine.

I am not kidding. The proverbial light went on and started strobing. I had a tremendous epiphany.

The towel he used to dry his urine hands? My towel which I use to dry my face every morning and night.

And there you have it, an understanding of the multiple stomach viruses which have been visited upon me. We also have another quality example of Dr. Caution to the rescue. Mystery solved. Case closed. Bleaching the towel. Moving my towel rack and wondering what he will use when the towel is gone????

Secret Lives of Soccer Moms and police departments in my area: I'm waiting for the call.