Thursday, April 5, 2012

I'm Pretty Sure I Was Punk'd, But I'm Still Waiting For The Camera Crew For Confirmation

She walked in briskly, elegantly swiping her sunglasses off her face... I would have surely caught myself in the nostril.... "I'm not sure if I'm in the right place. My husband sent me here to get a copy of our home inspection."

I felt instantly frumpy. Me in my oversized cardigan because the office temperature is impossible to regulate and well worn loafers; her in skinny jeans and expensive Coach Marlena boots. I sucked in my gut. Well, we don't really do home inspections, but we do have files for any building projects you may have done. Are you maybe looking for inspection reports from a remodel job?

"Those look delicious."

Excuse me?

*points to desk at oversized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos that I've been mowing down occasionally munching on*  "I'm dieting. Everything looks delicious when I'm dieting."

Oh. *awkward laugh while I suck in gut further* So, let's pull the file and see what's there.

"I don't want to waste your time - I'll call my husband. He'll know what I need."

And so I pull the file while she makes the call:
"Hi, it's Carol. Can I talk to Bob? ... Oh. He got paged to the hospital? .... That's right, I forgot he was on call for Roukus. Just tell him to call me."

I put the file on the table while she dials another number:
"Hi, it's Carol. I'm trying to get a hold of Bob. ... ICU? .... Well, of course they crash when he's on call. Just have him call me as soon as he can."

I open the file and start sorting through the paperwork and she dials another number:
"Hi, it's Carol. I guess Bob's in ICU; one of Roukus's patients is crashing - can you get him for me? I really need to talk to him. It's important."

I stare at her, mouth gaping open. Uh, I can just get copies of this and you can take it with you, it's no big deal....

"No, I don't want to waste your time. He said we needed something for the addition we want to put on; I want to adopt another baby, he wants a guest room. We already have five." (I wasn't sure if she meant five babies or bedrooms.)

Really, it's no big deal - (STOP DIALING THE FREAKING NUMBERS!)

"Hold on - it's Bob."..... and she puts him on speaker phone..... "Hi, honey! I'm here in Bridget's office --" (good lord, don't use my name! He has no idea who I am - besides, he's saving a life, I'm sucking engineered flavoring off my finger tips, what is wrong with you?!) " --- and I don't want to waste her time, what paperwo ---"

and this would be where Bob interjects with something that sounds awfully angry and along the lines of I'm at the hospital with --- and then she cuts him off impatiently with "I know, one of the patient's is crashing, this will just take a sec, I don't want to waste this poor woman's time."

But then I jumped in and said really loudly "I'LL JUST GIVE YOU A COPY OF THE WHOLE FILE, IT'S FINE! and she said, "did you hear that honey? She said she could give us a copy of the whole file" and then he snapped an angry that's fine and hung up.

Can you say awkward?

And also oh my god, when a doctor rushes out of the room I always assumed it was for something actually important.... like life saving treatment important, not let that frumpy girl get back to her bag of chips important. 

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

And THIS Would Be Why It's Important To Complete Your Homework

I remember Big V laughing - one of those real, deep, rowdy laughs - when he told me about how his mother did his homework for him. I remember tilting my head to the side (which happens to be the international sign for do you seriously think this will impress me?) and squinting my eyes (mostly because I have this awful habit of squinting my eyes so it looks like I'm pissed off all. the. time., but also because my contacts were about 3 months past their daily wash & wear expiration date).

"I'm sorry, did you just say your mom did your homework?"

"Yeah, well it's not like I had a lot...."

Thus the introduction to the amazing childhood of the Big V began. He played sports! He was great at sports! He could catch a football! He could dribble a basketball! And he could probably do many more sports-like activity with amazing skill and accuracy but since I could care less about anything that involves people hurling objects at another human being I really didn't listen!

But I did listen to the parts that involved hiding cans of beer in the ceiling tile of the boys' bathroom to be shot gunned throughout the school day and the fact that his one and only responsibility growing up was to be the best damn sports player ever to grace the halls of some off the map high school that averaged an annual enrollment of 150 students for all four grades combined.

But he was the best. (Actually, I don't have any actual documentation to back this up, it's just what he told me.)

Now, let's fast forward what feels like a gazillion years and there's Big V - who treats work like football practice, always giving 110% every second that he's there, who is completely loyal to the team (even if his boss is jacking him around in the Providing Legal Benefits department) and who also comes home just like he did in high school: dropping his crap at the door and plopping down on the couch waiting to be waited on.

(And if you think I'm kidding, there is currently a pair of work pants crumpled up in the middle of an otherwise clean and orderly entry way. Who loses their pants three seconds after they come in the door?)

So, there sits Big V, filling out necessary paperwork that he thought-assumed-hoped I would have already completed for him. But he doesn't realize that I grew up with a much different approach to life called God gave you arms and legs for a reason, now get off your lazy ass and get this shit done. Ain't nobody gonna do it for you; you can sit and stare at it all you want, it ain't going away. Or something to that effect.

"Hey!" he called from the table, where he'd been sitting the past twenty minutes, staring at the paperwork wondering why it wasn't magically filled in.
"I'm not doing it for you!" I called back from my comfy chair.

"I'm not asking you to!"

"Good! Because I won't!"

"Fine. I just have a question."


"It says, 'have you ever been bonded?' What should I put?"

"Well, have you ever been bonded?"


"Then I'd go with that."


A few minutes later:


"I'm not doing it for you!"
"I'm not asking you to!"

"Good! Because I won't!"

"Fine. I just have a question."


"It says, 'have you ever plead guilty to a crime?' What should I put?"

"Seriously?! You don't know if you've ever plead guilty to a crime?! Well, at least I don't have to worry about you doing Cletus's homework for him just so he can be eligible to play football."

It's a damn good thing he's good looking.

Monday, April 2, 2012

The Case of the Missing Shirt

The shirt is a dance uniform shirt. Needed for an upcoming performance. A dance performance. That my 10-year old daughter has with an entire dance team. Thus the necessity for a matching shirt. You know, to look like a team. And so they all wear the same shirt. A special ordered shirt. That we can't find.

It started with a text: we can't find it.

Find what? the shirt.

What shirt? the shirt i need for our performance on April 14th.

Oh shit.

And so I texted back to the 10-year old daughter whose shirt was missing: look in your room. everywhere. under everything, through everything, in everything.

Half hour later, a response: we still can't find it.

Not finding it is not acceptable.

Not finding it means not performing.

Not finding it means you think you feel like crap now? Wait until you have to fess up to your instructor, who you're pretty sure hates you and will certainly hate you when she finds out you lost your shirt.

Not finding it means you'd better wipe those tears and keep looking and keep looking and keep looking until you find it or you die, whichever comes first.

And so it was that I came home and announced that together we would enter the room that looks like a landfill but is actually meant to be a bedroom and find the sucker.

We started at noon.

And by start, I mean I stood in the doorway in utter disbelief, shaking my head and thinking we are never going to find anything in this mess.

"Okay, " I said, taking control of the situation. "The first thing I want you to do is take out all the garbage and anything that should be thrown away. You can start with this bag here --- " points to Justice bag, overflowing with hangers, trash, and shoeboxes from recent shopping spree ---- "but before you throw it out, go through it; take everything out bit by bit, you never know if it somehow fell in there."

The 10-year old sighed, rolled her eyes, slumped her shoulders, sighed again, while I resisted the urge to point out that it was not I who misplaced the uniform shirt, nor was it I who made this particular room this atrocious, nor was it I who wished to spend any amount of time whatsoever attempting to locate said missing uniform shirt in said atrocious looking room. Because being the grown-up means sometimes you have to shut your trap and not state the obvious. Something about fragile egos and self-esteem.

At 3 o'clock in the afternoon we stood back and observed our surroundings. Every dresser drawer had been pulled out and sifted through. Five bags of clothes were now in the basement waiting permanent storage containers. Shoes that no longer fit were tossed. Books put back on the shelves in order of author. Electronics rested in a specially marked area. Beds and dressers were pulled out, vacuumed behind then pushed back. Thorough cleaning was an understatement. Not one square inch of this room was untouched. We had slayed the beast... and the shirt was still no where to be found.

Oh, goody. I just can't wait to let them know we lost the uniform. As if my success as a parent isn't judged enough - from one woman in particular - and yes, you are the most fantastic mother on the planet who has the most perfect children ever and by golly, I just don't understand why my daughter is still in the lower level when yours has reached such amazing levels of skill and I guess my children and I should just accept the fact we are nothing more than the mat upon which your righteous family should wipe their precious feet. (I've often wondered what it would be like if I never made a mistake ever, but then, hello! What would I write about?)

Accepting defeat I headed to the kitchen. Perhaps a pan of brownies would make me feel better. The garbage was overflowing so I might as well throw it outside before I started the chocolate munchathon. On top of the heap -- that damn Justice bag. One look at it told me the kid never bothered to go through it.


I dropped everything in the garbage can and turned around to go back inside. I needed chocolate.

She never looked inside the bag.

I sighed.

Turned around.

Went back to the bag.

Pulled out the shoebox and dumped it back into the can.

Looked at the shoebox.

Pulled the shoebox back out.

Opened the shoebox.

And took the shirt out.

Did I mention we cleaned that room for three hours? THREE HOURS?!