The Wind Blew Open a Door --Bridget StuartI should have known yesterday would be a doozy by the way it started out. In the morning after the kids hustled off to school, I walked into the breakfast room, and there on the table was the gorgeous three-pound fancy box of See's Candies I'd special-ordered for my son's teachers--surrounded by torn gold wrapping, the top open, with four chocolates missing.
Yes, I think I shouted some obscenities as I clutched at my face in a very Greek-tragedy way. No, I didn't score my cheeks with my nails; I am not Medea.
When my 13-year-old son asked the night before if he could have some chocolate, I'd said yes, assuming it was obvious that he could take some from the small un-fancy box I'd wisely ordered in anticipation of such requests. The one that was ALREADY OPEN. Heh, heh, heh (bitter laughter)
So anyway, after I calmed down, I washed my hands and inserted truffles from the un-fancy box into the fancy box to fill the empty spaces and re-assembled the lot, then made my way across town to the school. They were having a special assembly for parents to watch students talk about their volunteer work, and applaud the other parents who gave so much time and help to the school this year. (Cough, adjust collar, slump in seat at the back of the room.)
Right after my son's presentation (in which guilty confessions about chocolate played no role), my cell phone rang. I'd forgotten to turn it off.
Grab purse, run out of room, decide maybe it's an important call and click it on. It's Brinks --my home security service--phoning up to tell me there was an intruder alarm at my house, and asking if they want me to call the police.
Like I'm going to say no, never mind?
I thought they *automatically* sent the police.
What if I hadn't picked up the phone?
Okay, whatever, I run outside, dive into the car, pedal to the metal, trying to get there before the police do. Because damn it, I didn't get to clean the house today. I didn't even MAKE THE BEDS. I'm thinking they'll be so appalled at the orange juice cups in the living room and the piles of laundry on the floor that they won't even notice a thief lurking under the coffee table.
Now, what is wrong with me that instead of worrying about my computers or the family heirlooms, I'm worried the police will find out I'm a slob? Is it pride? Is it social pressure? Is it...some kind of INSANITY?
You tell me.