Sharp Corners

I stuck my foot so far into my mouth today my tonsils still tingle.

Sears has been pestering me for days about buying an extended warranty for my refrigerator. I have politely declined roughly 853 times yet they still call back. I’ve asked to be put on their Do Not Call list but they say they don’t have one because they aren’t telemarketers. Ohhhhhh…okay. Right. Honest to god, my phone has been ringing twenty times a day with a different bozo on the other end each time. Since my cell phone’s Caller ID lets me know who’s calling, I’ve tried sending them to voice mail but the messages they leave are more obnoxious than the phone call itself.

Today I had a meeting that I was very excited but also nervous as hell about. Since I don’t like to silence my cell when the kids aren’t with me (in case the school or sitter needs me), I put the volume on low and hoped for the best. As you can probably guess, Sears decided to call several times during the meeting and I finally ended up having to shut the phone completely off before I died of embarrassment. Of course, I wish I had expired before the end of the meeting which is when I left little doubt that I am the klutziest person in the entire observable universe. As I stood up to leave and took a step forward, I realized a split second too late that the heel of my pump was caught in the strap of my handbag which had wound itself around the leg of my chair when I was fumbling with the phone. Luckily I caught myself before splatting completely onto the floor and split with what little dignity I had left. "Thank god that’s over," I thought. "At least I can’t embarrass myself further with this guy." Now why did I have to go and think a stupid thing like that?

About an hour ago, I was making phone calls to get information on a trip I may be taking out of town in the next few days. Sears – incredibly – started calling again. I wouldn’t take the calls in case I lost my place in Hold Please Hell at the businesses I was calling so I let voice mail pick up. The next half hour was a series of beeps that I had an incoming call, beeps that it had gone to voice mail, beeps that a message had been left, and beeps to let me know I had messages waiting. I felt like I was listening to Morse Code.

In between calls I went to get a soda and the phone rang again. I snatched it up, clicked on and said…um…forcefully, "WOULD YOU PLEASE STOP CALLING ME!! YOU’RE DRIVING ME INSANE!!" I expected to hear an acquiescence, apology or dial tone. Instead I heard a familiar voice say, "Uh, this is John Q. Businessman. We met earlier this morning and I realized I forgot to tell you something. Have I, uh, caught you at a bad time?"

Oh. God. Why. Me. I stammered, yammered and generally babbled incoherently while sticking my head in the oven (damn, it’s electric).  I’m sure I’m worrying about this much more than I need to especially since the meeting wasn’t work related but, crap, why can’t I embarrass myself when the outcome is not so important? Oh, wait. I do that too.

I’ve found a solution to the problem of how today’s events unfolded though and I think I know a way to prevent it from ever happening again. First my foot got caught in my purse, then it got stuck in my mouth. Since my foot seems to the the common denominator, after lunch I’m sawing it off just above the ankle (and, no, I won’t be using a Sears Craftsman jigsaw to do it).  People in future meetings like this won’t think less of me if I’m sporting a peg leg, will they?

I went to a lecture tonight. Ohmyfreakinggod was it boring. In fairness to the venue that put it together, it was part of a larger campaign designed to generate interest in an upcoming national education program so it wasn’t really their fault. Ohmyfreakinggod was it boring.

J knew lots of the people there and was talking shop so I amused myself by tottering around on heels that look fabulous but kill my feet while looking at the various displays set out for our enjoyment. And then I noticed the bar.

Woo.

There was some sort of red wine attached to the theme of the evening, I don’t remember what, and I guess it must have been good because people sucked it down like oxygen. Though I’m a dyed-in-the-wool red wine drinker (adn I neeeever dschrink toooo mushhhhh of hhhhhit), I’ve lost my taste for it recently so I checked out the white selection. There was some sort of perky pink crap stuff that I passed over in favor of the Chardonnay. Mistake.

I believe the grapes for this barrel of wine were stomped by people with toenail fungus and an advanced case of leprosy. Now, I am the farthest thing from a wine snob you’ll ever meet. My mother can attest that I think this is some awesome elixir. This wine, however, was not the nectar of loving gods but was instead more like the urine of some mightily pissed off gods (pun intended, har).

And of course I drank three glasses little plastic cups of it. Then I used the rest as a base for my oil and vinegar salad dressing.

And my point is?

I don’t know, people. Haven’t you been listening? I drank three glasses of cheap wine. On an empty stomach. And I’m out of practice for such revelry. And it’s taken me 3.6 hours to construct a post I will likely die of embarrassment from tomorrow. But for now, it’s…um….now. And I think I have an old bottle of port lying around somewhere.

G’night :::hic:::

Well, having an MP3 player was fun while it lasted. I’m stone deaf now from playing it at top volume for the past three days straight.*

~~~~~~~~~

So. People. The very next time I say I’m going to volunteer for something at my kids school, would you PLEASE beat me about the head and shoulders with a stick? Somehow I got it into my head that on top of being on the PTO and a couple other committees at the school, it would also be great fun to supplement that with being a Room Mom. Are you familiar with this concept? It occurs when an unsuspecting parent offers to help their child’s teacher with non-academic projects throughout the school year. Said parent also functions as the go-between for non-academic communications between the teacher and the other parents. What could be wrong with such a seemingly lovely dynamic?

Ha.

Well, for starters, trying to contact 26 other parents to ask for donations for a class project is giving me a migraine. You see, the PTO (in its infinite wisdom) decided last year (before unsuspecting parents could stop them) that a "simply smashing" way to raise money for each classroom is to hold a raffle right around the holidays. Each class is to put together a themed basket to be wrapped up and raffled off next month with all proceeds going to each classroom. Great idea in theory. Utterly freakin’ stupid in practice.

"Themed baskets" can pretty much cover anything so here are some of the ideas classes have come up with: Chocolate Splurge, Bath & Spa, The Buccaneers, Popcorn & Movie Night. You get the idea. I wanted to do our basket on "Great Slasher Movies of the ’80s & ’90s" but I was overruled. Too bad because I thought wrapping a chainsaw in a map of Texas would have been fabulous. Then I offered up the idea of "Adult Night." This basket would have coupons for free movie rentals, a jar of liquid chocolate and a can of Redi-Whip for snacking, a box of Kleenex (you know, in case you rented a tear-jerker), a blindfold (in case you rented a scary flick), and a bottle of massage oil for a relaxing backrub. Again, I was overruled. I just don’t know why.

The class (with gentle prodding by the teacher who was being cattleprodded by the Chairperson of this committee) selected "A Tour of Italy" as a theme. ::yawn:: The idea is to fill the basket with things from or about Italy. Oooooooh! Hold me down so I don’t thrash about wildly from the excitement!

A couple of weeks ago I dutifully contacted every classroom parent, explained the situation (while distancing myself as far as possible from the idea’s actual invention) and unceremoniously begged for donations. "It can be anything you want!" I bleated over and over. "Whatever you come across will be just great!"

Whoops.

I now have 16 boxes of dried pasta and 7 bottles of olive oil. I’ve been given some mysterious olive concoction that appears to be pickling in some sort of liquid. I’ve received green oven mitts (just oven mitts. green. I don’t get it either.) and two striped washcloths (I’m totally serious). I’ve received decorative bottles with raffia tied around the neck and the front label scraped completely off, thereby making its contents unidentifiable. Oh, and someone sent in a coffee mug with grape vines on it. Used, I believe. And a cookbook ("Italian in 30 Minutes") that is so obviously regifted that I believe I still smell birthday cake on it.

You know, I wasn’t expecting plane tickets to Venice for chrissake but I am at a loss as to how to use some of these items. Even the teacher has to suppress giggles when she hands over the stuff the kids have brought in from home. The teacher, bless her, has been helping me call Italian restaurants in the area so we can prostitute the class ask nicely for a donation. Fortunately, they’ve been taking pity on us and offering up gift certificates. Over the weekend, faced with the idea that I may have to turn in a basket called "Tour of the Back Alleys of Italy," J and I went shopping. We bought a huge pizza stone, a giant pizza cutter, some fancy dough mix and a jar of gourmet pizza sauce. Woo.

I have to get this piece d’resistance wrapped up and delivered to the school by next week and I’m oh-so-happy about having taken part in this event. The next time the PTO wants to do a fundraiser, I’ll just offer to have myself slathered with honey and tied to a pylon in the school parking lot while a swarm of angry bees circles above me. That would be so much more fun.

Oh, and one other thing: you know if no one bids on this basket the day of the raffle some poor schmuck will have to buy it just so the kids don’t feel bad. How much do you think I should pay for it?

*Kidding. I’ve only lost partial hearing in one ear but I carry this around to compensate.

The boys are leaving this afternoon to spend the weekend with their father and even after all this time, I still get sad to see them go. The prospect of sleeping late and loafing all weekend snaps me right out of it, though.

Rather then dwell on how much I’ll miss them, I’ve been entertaining myself all morning by thinking up ways to punish the roofers working on the house across the street for doing their jobs. Some of you might remember that I had my roof replaced over the summer and, oh, what an adventure that was. On my list of things to never do again in my lifetime (right under "attempt to pierce my nostril with a paper hole puncher"…no, you may not ask) is get a new roof. It was a nightmare, taking approximately 942 days for them to tear off the old one and put on the new. I’ve formed kidney stones in less time than it took them to do my roof.

Two days ago, a truck pulled up across the street and began unloading huge bags onto my neighbor’s roof via a crane. Since it seems like a stupid place to hide heroin, I assumed it must be bags of shingles. From this I deduced that they were having their roof replaced. I have a mind like a steel sieve. Nothing gets past me.

Yesterday, at 7:00 in the morning, 65 workers arrived, shimmied up ladders and yanked the entire existing roof off in about an hour. Compare this to the geniuses (geni?) that did my roof: On the first day, 4 guys showed up, spent two hours figuring out how to climb up there, broke for lunch, regrouped an hour later for a nap, talked some more while they smoked and went home.

By day’s end, my neighbor’s roof had been prepped and repapered, ready for shingles the next morning. The workers had even covered all the shrubs and plants with tarps to protect them from falling debris. The guys who did mine took turns aiming roof scraps at my car while high fiving each other for every direct hit.

This morning, J was out talking to the neighbors and had the nerve to come in and tell me their roof would be done by tonight. Tonight? Done in two days? Unbelievable. It pained me to hear it. Sure enough, it is a little past the noon hour and from my vantage point I can see at least the front half of the roof is already on. Wow, they work fast. And hard. Damn them to hell.

I’ve decided it’s not really fair to blame the workers for being efficient. I realize I have no business being jealous of my neighbor’s good fortune that their home improvement project has gone so smoothly. I’ve decided that I shouldn’t be frustrated that their company did a much better job than the one I hired. I’m over it now.

So, did I mention the kids will be gone this weekend? What? What’s that? Oh, no…we have no plans really. I just thought I’d do a little yard work. Maybe get around to painting that trim I’ve been meaning to get to. Oh, and perhaps spend tonight on my neighbor’s roof with pliers, a buzz saw, an axe and a claw hammer. Just to, you know, have a look around.