My kids are running late. This gives me anxiety, frustration and volume. My son, Boo, can't seem to find his other sock while wandering around the kitchen looking for milk in the pantry, and questioning why there isn't any toast in his cereal bow. My daughter doesn't remember where her toothbrush is and can't understand why I won't just let her use mine. (warm, chewed up Apple Jacks tround into MY bristles? No thanks) or that she should wash her face...the usual.
I am standing at the base of the stairs with my eyes squinched shut, shouting at the chandelier: "Cereal in the bowl! Milk in the fridge! Socks must MATCH! Toothbrush in the top drawer of the guest room dresser. USE SOAP! On your face! Toothpaste goes in your mouth! IS ANYONE LISTENING TO ME?????"
Whew! So it goes and if it weren't me, I'd be laughing hysterically. But I am not. I'm sweaty and almost panting. The bus is due any minute. Ohhhh I HATE being late! (My mother used to make us walk if we missed the bus. It's no lie that by the time we got to school, classes would be just short of over; and THEN I had to explain why I ditched school. See the problem? I did it once. I've never been late since.) So I pump up the volume. It sounds like metal files grinding together as I squawk :" It's almost 8:00! If you miss that bloomin bus, you are gonna have to HOOF it!" Did I just say that?! Oh Mom, you'd be proud.
I hear my herd of elephants half-tumbling down the stairs (not forgetting to do the free-style split jump from the third step) grappling with the closet gremlins that turn coat sleeves wrong side out and eat one glove per matched set all the while punching the holy snot out of each other to be first "out of trouble" by being ready for school.
Somehow we get out the door and are all hopping down the street; coats a-flappin in the breeze still trying to slip on those last minute extras and tie our shoes. The big yellow bus waits and the driver waves, welcoming my bunnies. Hurried "I love you's" and harsh smacky kisses make me realize I am the one who hates to be late. They hustled but it just wasn't good enough for me. I stop running, mutter a swear word that rhymes with pit and head back to the house. I'll try to start this day again.
Hi-Ho! It's off to work I go. I checkthe mirror and realize my shirt is buttoned wrong; incredibly wrong. My bra is sticking out and my collar resembles more of a hood. Oh MY! So readjusting myself, I pop in the car and zoom alongside the other frazzled moms that have angrily fired up their cell phones and SUV's on the way to work. I survive the school zones loaded with crossing guards, speed traps and inattentive drivers and am soothed by the sight of my desk, my chair and my office. This is good. I will begin again....then the phone rings. I answer it (seems harless enough).
"You are SUPPOSED to call people back." is how it starts.
"Excuse me?" I feel the carpet marching out from underneath me.
"I been cawlin' and CAWLIN'! I left message aftah messag and NUTHIN. You're irresponsible. A complete ***********!"
"I'm sorry... you are?" I look at my watch. It's 8:36am. Is it too early for a martini if I put O.J. in it? That would be a fresh start.
"I am somebody tryin' to git some HELP!" this banshee shrieks at me.
"Okay," I say soothingly, trying to get my bearings. I don't recognize the voice or the accent. I'm running through my mental Rolodex as quickly as possible. "When did you call last?" I'm in a panic and don't mind saying that my butt was a-puckerin. When and where did I go so wrong?
"I e-mailed twice, left three messages. Now, HOW am I supposed to do this all by MYSELF?" She viciously spits.
"I don't know. I'm trying to find an answer for you."
"It's not FAST enough." This lady is all but taking bites out of the receiver and my ear. I think I resemble my kids from this morning. >sigh<
"Look, screeching at me doesn't get this problem solved any quicker. Either you lower your voice or I'll hang up and you can leave some more messages. You choose."
"You threatenin me?"
"Nope. I'm PROMISING you. You choose." My banshee sighs. I can hear her cross her arms heavily over her chest.
"Now," I begin. "Tell me EXACTLY what the problem is."
"I cant' get into the Dunkin Donut folder in the computer."
The needle skips across the record player in my head. SCRRRREEEEEEETCH!
"What did you say" I ask incredulously.
She huffs and picks up a little 'tude and volume . "The Dunkin Donut file? It won't OPEN. I can't get into...."
I begin to giggle. This sends the banshee into another dimension of fury. I can't even begin to fake-type all the swearing going on here. So I collect myself and say: "You are ABSOLUTELY right. I was wrong. Please tell me everything that's wrong. I'll listen." She does and while this takes about ten minutes, I am checking my e-mails (none of which are from Banshee@Yahoo.grouch). When she is finished, I pause and give a thoughtful " Hmmmmmm".
Then I drop it on her. "Well, you've dialed the wrong number. This is a pharmacy." I wait for it because the first bite was SO delicious.
"WHAT?" she wails (I can't actually type how loudly she said it, but I'm sure you get the idea. You're smart people.)
I continue, "I'm a pharmacist. This isn't Dunkin donuts Headquarters and I'm not a computer genius. I'm sorry. I can't help you, but have a nice day. I hope you get your folder fixed."
I think she is paralyzed from the vocal cords down but a meek "I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry." squeaks from between her jaws.
"It's okay. We all make mistakes, don't we?" I chirp.
I read somewhere that we should try to make our words soft and sweet; just in case we have to eat them. I think it was on a Dunkin Donuts cup? Maybe not.
Thanks for stopping in. I hope I made you smile.
