Diary of a Wimpy Pigeonhole

Pigeonholes are everywhere, although I am pretty sure we humans are the only ones that use them. I think pigeons prefer nests.

For us, pigeonholes are simply a way of stereotypically categorizing each other. For example, people make judgements about the cars others drive. There are the Hummer drivers, the Prius drivers, the mini-van drivers… I, for one, know that Hummer drivers are conservatives who don’t care about the environment; Prius drivers are liberals who do; and mini-van drivers have accepted the fact that function outweighs sexy at certain stages in life. I don’t really know, but I know.

I don’t advocate the use of stereotyping. I just know I am guilty of doing it. Who amongst us hasn’t seen a Sarah Palin bumper sticker and decided the relative corruption or integrity level of the stuck based on that vehicular adornment alone? Put it on a Hummer, and you might just make a liberal’s head explode.

Then there is the art of pigeonholing the pigeonhole. Bumper stickers confirm political stance already presumed by car type. Like the Energizer® bunny, it can just keep going and going.

I am really struggling with this issue at the moment. Here’s why.

I had to go to town, which is an investment in time and money where I now live because I live 15 minutes from everything. I was on a schedule (STEROTYPE: overscheduled). My cat got out (STEROTYPE: cat woman). My dogs were being stupid (STEROTYPE: dog nut). I was afraid my cat would kill my chickens (STEROPTYPE: country girl). My kids were dawdling (STEROTYPE: maternal), so I was frustrated (STEROTYPE: impatient).

When I finally caught the cat and picked him up, his paw was covered in what I would like to believe was mud but know was a muddy mixture of unmentionables. The paw landed directly on top of my left breast. I was wearing a white t-shirt. It is important to note here that I had on a jacket.

So, what did this overscheduled, pet-crazy, maternal, impatient country girl do?

I zipped up my jacket and went to town.

I zipped up my jacket and went to town with what I am pretty sure was, at least in part, chicken shit in the shape of a cat paw on my left breast.

So there’s that. I don’t have any idea into which pigeonhole that puts me. I am too afraid to figure it out.

I am what I wore to town.