“No, Chief, noooooo, not her! The last government guy assigned to tail her is still in the ‘clinic’.”
“Come on Faulkner, we’re over budget, understaffed, and besides, you drew the short straw. Now get on this Rinehart woman’s case immediately I want taps on her phones, spyware on her computer, a GPS chip under the hood of her minivan, and someone at the post office to intercept her mail. I’ll expect your first log turned in by the end of the day.”
6 a.m. Monday. Subject pretends to sleep through husband’s alarm clock. Sneaks dogs into bed after husband leaves room. Son is alert and readying himself for school with three bowls of sugarbomb cereal.
6:45 a.m. Subject rolls out of bed, brushes teeth and shuffles to front door to hug son goodbye.
6:46 a.m. Subject starts coffee machine and stares at it blindly until brewing’s complete.
6:48 a.m. Subject pours coffee as daughter shuffles past and into laundry room to rummage through piles of clean clothing. Subject searches for newspaper.
7 a.m. Mother and daughter fight over comics pages. Daughter wins and reads over two bowls of sugarbomb cereal. Subject settles for State and Local section and reads obituaries.
7:02 a.m. Husband leaves for work. Note to self: Don’t bother installing chip in his car. Too predictable.
7:09 a.m. Subject finally gets comics but needs to make daughter’s lunch. Note to self: Research origins of knife used to cut crusts off peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
7:13 a.m. Subject in frenzy after misplacing coffee cup.
7:15 a.m. Subject locates coffee cup in linen closet. Pours refill number two.
7:16 a.m. Subject locates and wears fuzzy “Yoga Girl!” slippers.
7:17 a.m. Subject disappears behind powder room door. Note to self: Thank Chief for not allowing cameras in powder rooms.
7:28 a.m. Mother, daughter and dogs leave for bus stop. Canines are leashed according to municipal code PTY332548374. Mother wears suspicious looking trench coat over pajamas for walk to corner.
7:57 a.m. Subject remains on street corner, now with three female accomplices. They appear to be exchanging highly classified information. Preliminary lip reading suggests talk of Girl Scout cookie overstocks, grocery store triple coupon weekend, minivans, husbands’ sock drawers, exploding hot water heaters, and adult acne. Note to self: Install bug in trench coat and backup bug in slippers. Check for explosives residue at all four residences.
8:10 a.m. Subject and dogs walk home. Dogs are fed breakfast. The medium-sized mutt eats his dry. The Miniature Dachshund prefers gravy on her kibbles. After breakfast, Subject brushes dogs’ teeth and puts them outside. (The dogs, not their teeth. Canine teeth remain intact.)
8:30 a.m. Subject checks her e-mail account. She has 405 messages in her inbox requiring attention. Preliminary spying surveillance revels 68 letters were unoriginal “forwards”, 103 were spam and the rest were legitimate. Further investigation required from Special Ops on monthly letters from an informant using the alias, “Julie B.” and purporting to work for Proctor and Gamble.
9:02 a.m. This agent is bored senseless and needs a nap. And a new job.
Karen Rinehart is a syndicated newspaper columnist, public speaker, and creator of The Bus Stop Mommies™. Her book, Invisible Underwear, Bus Stop Mommies and Other Things True To Life, is a popular read in book clubs, school pick up lines, and soccer fields. She enjoys hearing from readers across the States and as far away as Australia, Japan, and England. You can read more at BusStopMommies.com. Karen lives in North Carolina with her two kids, two dogs, and one husband, where they attend St. James Catholic Church. (Well, they leave the dogs at home.)