Cookie chump Mom

I consider myself an expert on very few things in this world. Mummy meatloaf, Twitter, $12 bottles of wine and maybe cookies.

On Saturday morning I found out just what a novice I am in the latter despite my recent intensive training on the subject.

You see, I have been coerced against my will volunteered to be the "Cookie Mom" for our Girl Scout Troop. I thought this would be a relatively simple endeavor--how difficult can it be to order a few cases of Thin Mints for 15 third graders? They kind of sell themselves, right?

OMG.

I have now completed 28 hours of required training which--among other helpful life skills--include the sustainability of palm oil, the nutrition facts of a Samoa and how to bedazzle a card table to set up in front of Home Depot. My schooling was a combination of 39 online videos followed by SAT essay questions, a Saturday morning in-person session beginning at 7:30 am and ending 2 days later, and an on-going tutorial with a website that seems to crash my browser and my spirit.

But I am now certified to compile your Tagalong orders beginning December 24th which I can assert with expert certainty goes nicely with a $12 bottle of Hey Mambo.

April showers bring May dollars

Negotiating with landscapers was so much simpler in Florida than it is in the north....


SD: So what’s all that green stuff all over the yard?

Landscaper: Um, grass....

SD: Well that’s weird. It certainly doesn’t look like the grass I’m used to in Florida. Are you allowed to walk on it?

Landscaper: Yes, that is its designed purpose.

SD: Barefoot with no threat of lacerations or tetanus?

Landscaper: I’ve never heard of anyone getting lockjaw from a shoeless stroll in Kentucky Bluegrass, so I think you’d be okay.

SD: Wow. What about this? (Pointing to dead brown things under bushes.)

Landscaper: Ma’am, those are leaves.

SD: Even I know that! But what are they doing all over the ground?

Landscaper: Um, they fell from the trees back in the fall like they tend to do every year. For another $500 we can clean them up for you.

SD: Seems a little steep for something you know is going to happen every year....

Landscaper: Where’d you say you were from again? Jupiter?

SD: No, silly, that’s on the other coast. Now, I want to ask you about these trees over here. I already know they’re Bradford Pears, but so far they haven’t produced any fruit. They may need to be replaced.

Landscaper: They are not like citrus trees, they don’t actually grow edible pears.

SD: Great. And now I suppose those Japanese Maples aren’t going to produce wasabi syrup?

Landscaper: No, and the dogwoods won’t be having puppies either.

SD: (Scowling.) Well, since you’re also an apparent expert in animal husbandry, maybe you could tell me what’s hatching over here in the flower bed?

Landscaper: (Looking closely.) Ma’am, that’s a tulip. (Shaking head.) Don’t tell me you don’t have any spring bulbs down there? Crocuses? Irises?

SD: (Thinking.) We have bullfrogs and cataract surgery. Look, this is as fruitless (and disappointing) as that mimosa tree I had back in Tampa. Can you just give me a price on yard maintenance until I can learn my way around?

Landscaper writes numbers furiously on the back of a seed packet.

SD: (Choking back a sob.) Well, at least I know why weeping willows thrive here.



©2011 Tracey Henry

Divamail me the Burpee seed catalog!

The fun of fundraising

File this somewhere between "I should know better by now," and "Guaranteed to offend everyone I know," but I am about to get loud over Silent Auctions.

Unless you're a native Aborigine (and then the word is gabi gabi tok tok, meaning, "to screw your fellow villager",) you’re certainly familiar with the Silent Auction fundraising model. Strategically located near the open bar, several donated goods and services are lined up with bid sheets below. The highest bid at the end of the evening "wins" that particular item, and all of the proceeds go to that charity.

I am not singling out any organization or abused chairperson--everyone does it the same way and if I criticize too much, I run the risk of being saddled with the hapless job of coming up with a new method. Which in my case would most certainly involve several high interest loans, a border run, and a guy with no last name who always refers to himself in the third person. This is probably not what the founders of the Orphaned Baby Alpacas had envisioned for their 50's night at the Holiday Inn. So we are all stuck with this this auction-based form of fundraising for the very far future.

We've recently attended a number of these events, and from what I remember of them, they are a unique experience. The best part of any auction is that you don't "buy" anything, you "win" it. Curiously, the "winner" is the guy that paid the most money for crap he didn’t want in the first place. This would be the purchasing equivalent of finding an item at a store that you had no interest in, waiting for it to go off-sale, and then checking back three or four times to make sure you had paid the highest inflated value. Sort of like shopping at Pottery Barn.

If you insert the phrase, "But it's for a good cause," in front of any item at an auction, you can rationalize your way through the most ridiculous purchases. If you punctuate the sentence with another glass of punch, you will end up to be more charitable than Mother Theresa. As you probably have guessed, I have recently "won" a set of cookware for a good cause. And because "it goes to charity," a teeth whitening session from a local dentist. And a Cracker Barrel rocking chair with a bunch of signatures on it. And a leaf blower. And eleventy-billion Legos. And a case of off-brand Riesling. And a gift certificate for a car wash. And a decorative clock. And buyer's remorse. And a hangover.

But it was for a good cause, right? RIGHT?!!??!

And so will my defense fund when I break in to the Orphaned Baby Alpaca Headquarters and steal my check back.

Give generously.

Where'd I put the chafing dishes?

Now that Thanksgiving has passed, soccer is over (hockey, not quite), shopping has been started and I've pressed the first load of Mr. Rooney's shirts, I can now focus on the next big event--and no, it's not Christmas.

Sean's retirement party is quickly approaching, because only I would plan such a huge event four days before the year's biggest event to ensure that I will be committed to an insane asylum on December 26th. But when do I ever make things easy or pass up an opportunity to party and make mini beef wellingtons for 150?

But looking at the shopping list and sheer number of trips to retail outlets over the next 3 weeks--I may just be making fava bean canapes with a nice bottle of Chianti.

Signs of Crazy

I told you the yard sign issue would continue, and so it has.

So's the signs have now quadrupled in the neighborhood with no sign of rebuke from our useless homeowner's ass. In addition to the presidential declarations, a new one cropped up yesterday on our Proposition 2, which is a proposal to ban gay marriage with a Florida Constitutional amendment.

The sign explains the amendment by saying, "1 man+1 woman=legal marriage" Protect marriage or some such thing that I really didn't feel like explaining to my 8 year-old when he asked what that sign meant.

So, dutifully, instead of putting up my own sign that reads, "I live in a neighborhood of idiots," I wrote my homeowner's ass. with a repeat complaint, including the gay-bashing sign for all to read and to explain to their children coming off the bus stop in a neighborhood that doesn't allow signs, even when it is a resident's business owned truck that has his landscaping company's name printed on the side that he now must cover up with a black magnet every night when he comes home from work because the Kravitz' complained it was against HOA policy, yet they play games with the rules they apply to others but not themselves by keeping their political declarations posted in the garage. I was more succinct and brief in my complaint to the management company, as was their response.

"It is a difficult situation."

We pay them tens of thousands of dollars for that kind of sage response.

Actually, it isn't difficult at all. If it is against the rules, then make them take the signs down. Period. Across the board. If they don't, fine 'em. Just as they would have no problem doing for a dirty roof or sidewalk. I seriously have no patience for this.

Sean doesn't either, and after a very colorful response to their response to the tool at the management company, he went to the Board Meeting which just happened to be last night. They were surprised to see him, because no resident has ever attended. After a brief presentation of his point, they agreed that perhaps a phone call and letters were warranted. Wow. They are so bold.

We shall see if this accomplishes anything but labeling our house as the crazy people who are about to get "McCain-Palin" bleached into their front lawn. But my point from the beginning has been if you're going to allow them, that's fine. Just give me equal time. I will paint a mural on the side of my house and erect political topiary from my azaleas.

Beyotch.

Must Not See TV

I don't think it's good for me to watch this much convention coverage. I go to bed angry, don't sleep well and then have nightmares about angry white people chanting, "Drill, Baby, Drill!" I need to stay away from the tv and blogs tonight.

I know, I'll write instead. What a novel novelty.

(See? My old punny self will replace this cackling, twitching, crazed version that wears my shoes and argues with herself in the shower soon enough.)

Sunday tale of woe

I'm purging the house of crud. Decluttering. Summer cleaning. Deep cleaning. Organizing. Simplifying.

In other words, going out of my flipping mind.

Why did I start in Stevie's room? Why....

&^%*$# Child locks

I'm trying to figure out how to put these new child safety locks on my bathroom cabinets.

Seriously, my hair will be dry before I can get into the cabinet to get the blower.

Ot Jessie will turn 30 and I won't have to worry about it anyway.

6 Months and 6 pounds

I just returned from the six month check-up. Everything is fine...except I gained a tad more this month than my previous boasts.

In my defense--which I didn't voice to the scale Nazi--my activity/exercise level has been considerably diminished due to the tsunami size contractions that occur whenever I walk more than 5 paces.

I also failed to calculate that last glass of eggnog and plate of German Twists would go on this month's total and not January's thighs.

Damned new math.