Read Blacklisted from the PTA Online
Authors: Lela Davidson
Blacklisted from the PTA (6 page)
,
WHILE UNLOADING AN OBSCENE AMOUNT
of groceries, I noticed a thick, pink substance on the garage floor. Lemonade? Maybe, but it appeared to be coming from inside the car. After I got my dairy and frozen goods out of the heat, I dipped my finger into the pink mess. It didn’t smell like anything and looked about as worrisome as IHOP syrup, which threatens only my thighs.
About an hour later I had to run an urgent errand. If I didn’t get that double tall iced latte, someone was getting tied to a tree. Because my husband was out of town, I had another car to drive, one which did not have pink goo oozing out of it. However, I chose to drive the leaky car. It started and drove fine, at first. Soon the thermometer light came on. I tensed when it started to blink, even though I had no idea what that meant.
If I designed cars, there would be a light that said, “Pull Over.” And if you didn’t immediately comply, another light would come on that said, “NOW!” If you still didn’t get the hint, the car would turn itself off. But my car doesn’t have this handy imaginary feature. Still, despite the warning light, my trip was uneventful. I finished my urgent errand and drove home.
The next afternoon, after loading the car with five children, four snorkels, two masks, a box of crackers, forty-five fruit snacks, a gross of beach towels, and enough juice to flood a small country, it wouldn’t start. I tried again while the children whined, hot and cranky. Clearly this was another urgent situation so I did what I had to do. I switched cars and went to the pool.
Then I had to make the call. “Do you want to hear the bad news?” I asked my husband. I told him about the harmless smelling gunk, the flashing red thermometer, and the nonstarting car. Luckily I married a man who remains calm in the face of mechanical trouble.
“Was the car leaking while you were driving?”
“No,” I said. “It was in the garage.”
“And the light, when was that flashing?”
Here’s where things started to turn against me. “Oh, well… . see…. I needed to go to the –”
“You drove the car?”
He is not so calm in the face of four-digit repair bills. I couldn’t feed his panic, but had to reassure him that there was nothing to worry about, just a task to accomplish. “What I need to know is whether I should have the car towed to the dealership or if you think we can put in some more of that pink stuff and drive it over.”
My husband sighed from another state and I heard the hang of his head. “I hope you didn’t seize the engine.”
“No.” I brushed it off. “I think it’s something else—something easy to fix.”
Neither my husband nor the mechanic agreed that it was something easy to fix, but it didn’t matter. I may not be good with machines, but things always work out for me. For instance, my new car is very shiny.
:
HAIR DRYER
,
COFFEE POT
, television, thermostat, washer, dryer, Toyota, microwave. Too many to list. And sometimes— like after my family watches
The Matrix
for the 412th time—I wonder if we’re not getting a little too used to the electrical and mechanical conveniences, if we’re not getting too soft.
After working for two hours, my computer angrily displayed the message that I had better switch over to real power before my battery died. Afraid to lose any portion of the Important Masterpiece I had been writing, I immediately checked everything—the plug that goes into the computer, the black box it feeds into, and the wall socket. All plugged in. My machine made good on its threat and died. I switched outlets. Nothing. Over and over I powered up and the computer shut down, back into hibernation—trying, I assume, to save what little juice was left in its battery. Finally, it made a high pitched wheezing sound and gave up humoring me completely.
The black screen stared at me. The blinky-blinky orange light on the power button disappeared. What I had neglected to inspect before—the cord—I now found broken, possibly mistaken for a rawhide by the dog I feed and bathe and medicate.
When I whined to my husband that I was on my way to Best Buy for a new power cord, he told me we had a universal cord in the desk drawer. When I hear the word, “universal,” I think of something easy, something equipped with its own internal superior knowledge that allowed it to operate without my help, something even a techno-loser writer could figure out.
Right. The universal cord had several tips to choose from and several pieces that all seemed to fit together. I eventually figured out the correct order to connect the pieces, but even fully assembled, the master of all power sources wouldn’t turn my computer on. I checked the ports again. All were in order so I gave up on the omnipotent power cord and took everything to Best Buy where two guys younger than my Compaq told me I needed a new cord. Perhaps I would like the $149 model. (Not that they’re on commission or anything.)
In desperation I visited the Geek Squad desk where I was outrageously lucky to get a wildly talented geek. She listened to my story and offered a few tricks. While she spoke, and without breaking eye contact, she gently turned my computer over, effortlessly located the release, moved the battery slightly, and closed the compartment. Elegantly and without any overt display of ego, she sent me on my way to try the universal cord once more.
At home, the tones of the power-up sequence melted my shoulder tension and let me know that I would live to log in another day. All it had taken was a loving touch.
L
ELA AND
I
HAVE A HOUSEKEEPER
. D
ON
’
T JUDGE ME
. I’ve done enough of that myself. I’ve also tried to handle the housework myself—even enlisted the kids in a weekly ritual to rid our home of the odor of dog and used Kleenex. The routine consisted of making a list of chores, cranking up the Jonas Brothers, and setting a timer for an hour. It was ugly, but in the end the house was clean—not white glove clean, but good enough.
I would follow up throughout the week nagging the children to pick up their things until I ran out of saliva. This system worked for a while, but the kids complained and I got tired of yelling. We slacked off. When I once again feared picking up a staph infection from my own bathroom, I knew I needed help.
The grime coating my best wedding gift vase was so thick I’d forgotten its original color; dust bunnies had morphed into a pack of vicious jackrabbits under my sofas; and there were leftovers in the fridge dating back to the Bush Administration. It’s like a disease, this inability to scrub grout and polish porcelain. Clearly, I was not in control. So why feel so guilty about outsourcing? I’m only trying to set a good example. I wouldn’t want my children to think a woman is supposed to do everything. That would be wrong.
I called the woman who used to clean our house back when I had one big paycheck instead of the handful of small ones I now receive. She was available. And she’s great—with baseboards, stainless, and my fingerprint-laden glass-topped desk. I justified the luxury by telling myself that now the kids and I will have time to work on the deep detail cleaning and organizing. We’ll thwart the landfill-o-crap that threatens to overtake their bedrooms. Mmm-hmmm. That’s exactly what we’ll do with the time. We won’t sit around eating Sour Patch Kids and Raisinettes and watching American Idol. No way.
Naturally, I had to clean up the house before the housekeeper’s first visit. I won’t be judged for hair-clogged drains and fuzzy ceiling fans. More important, I don’t want her thinking we’re trouble like those slobs across the street. I can’t afford a rate hike, and I do detest those pesky negotiations.
Her first day back I withheld a giggle as she lemonpolished her way around the room. I let out a hearty “YES” when I saw the neat pile of rags next to the washer after she’d gone. I floated through the house on a lavender and Pledge-scented cloud. Goodbye, tiny hairs and pet dander. Hello, shiny wood floor.
Am I spoiled? Sure. Am I addicted to the housekeeper? I can quit any time. Ultimately it comes down to happiness. And nothing makes me happy like crumb-free floors and shiny granite.
. The drawer before me is a mess of tubs, tubes, and compacts, hair bands and hair—a chaos from which no beauty could emerge—unlike the pretty makeup on the counter, which is proudly displayed in leaded crystal and condescendingly mocks the dirty stepchildren shoved in the drawer.
As I dig into the mess I find I have enough black eyeliner—in different shades and degrees of sparkle—to survive the apocalypse. (You’re not really asking if there are different shades of black, are you?)
I find five different colors of red lipstick, one of which I know to be at least ten years old. You can’t just toss a red; you never know when you’ll need one or another to mix just the right tint. Red matters. I spent years wearing a tangerine poppy shade after reading that while women prefer blue-toned reds, men are drawn to orange-based hues. Now, to brighten my task, I smear some scarlet on my lips. With the rest of my face bare, I am transformed into a forties movie star/harlot. Just as I’m thinking this look works better in black and white, my husband walks by and utters “Damn!” in a way that tells me the look is definitely more harlot than starlet. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Despite his—and most men’s—declarations that they prefer a natural look, my husband has never complained about my made-up face, including the occasional overuse of apocalyptic eyeliner.
The thought of my children banging on our closed bedroom door is about as sexy as last spring’s experiment with green eye shadow. Besides, while an organized makeup drawer may not rise to the level of “better than sex,” if done right, it lasts longer. I politely decline.
My coffee has lost its steam so I indulge in the fudge as I pick through old foundation and a pot of glitter-something. I find a tube of Revlon Beyond Natural Primer. Beyond natural, way beyond—because it’s actually plastic.
I don’t understand the allure of primer, but beauty editors swear by the stuff so, since I’ve recovered it from the drawer of disorder, I vow to once again use the miracle elixir to spackle my pores. They’re not so bad, as pores go, but also not so good that they couldn’t use some silicone assistance. I smooth on the polymer, carefully avoiding my simmering red lips. Returning to the cosmetic confusion, I wonder why there are two of Step Two of my Mary Kay home micro-dermabrasion kit but only one of Step One.
I stop to play with an eyebrow kit because it’s new, and because I am almost as obsessed with my eyebrows as I am with my lips. I throw away the toothbrush I ruined scrubbing the eye pencil sharpener. Then I toss the business card for the esthetician at the dermatologist’s office, but only because her number is already programmed into my phone.
When I am done cleaning and culling, the drawer is organized into tidy compartments. I reward myself with the remaining fudge and admire my work. There is a container for everyday items: contact lenses, deodorant, makeup (like mascara) that’s not pretty enough for the sink-side crystal tray. Another container holds sixteen shades of eye shadow. Yet another is home to a modest thirteen tubes of lipstick and gloss. (Don’t worry, there are more throughout the house.) One final container holds resurfacing crystals and a micro-chemical peel. Floating free in the drawer are four more toothbrushes in case I need to tame an especially errant brow or clean all that waxy black eyeliner film from around the sink drain.
The coffee is cold, the fudge is gone, and my red lip shaped mark on the mug is the most glamorous residue of my task. I swipe a bit of ruby gloss over my crimson-stained lips. For the moment my world is in order. Which is a good thing, because my husband is back, eyeing me in the mirror.
functional computer. Slow start-up, programs that close unexpectedly, and digital minions who save your words to a drive you’ve never heard of can cause any of us to channel our inner Hemingway. And I’m talking about his efficiency with liquor, not words. For bloggers, lack of a working gateway proves even more disastrous. We live to surf websites for opportunities, never knowing where we’ll earn a quarter to write about our sock matching technique or a buck for our words about little Johnny’s first bicuspid.
“Maybe it’s not a virus,” I told my husband. “Maybe it’s Spyware.” I liked pretending I knew what I was talking about.
“Spyware, huh?”
“Spies are everywhere,” I said, looking around like a character in a cold war novel. I shrugged it off. “There must be something they can do right? I mean, don’t you think they can fix it?”
“How can you get rid of it if it’s spying on you?”
Smartass.
When I reached out for help, the men of a certain anti-virus protection outfit were only too happy to chat me up.
Ramesh: Welcome to the Antivirus Solution Center. How may I help you?
Lela: I have a problem with my web access. I think I have a virus, or spyware.
Ramesh: What is your 32-digit product number?
32-digit product number? This is exactly why I had put off contacting the virus people for over a month. If I had the kind of mind that could commit a 32-digit number to memory, I probably could have taken the computer apart and excised the electronic gremlin myself.
It took me a week to convince the chat guys that I had a legitimate problem, and it only happened then because during an online scan, the viral beast interrupted the scan. I was immediately upgraded from the chat service to a phone consult.
“Sounds like you have a wirus,” my new helper announced.
Did he say walrus? “Pardon me?”
“I think you have a wirus.”
Wirus? “No,” I said. “My wireless is working fine.”
“Not wireless, wi-rus.” He sounded irritated.
Wirus, rirus… virus! “Yes, yes, I have a virus!”
May as well have been a walrus, because it was goo goo g’joobing all over my computer.
He transferred my case to the virus department, which he said would be in contact within forty-eight hours. Silly me, I thought the whole company was the virus department. I fought back bitterness. What’s two more days when you’ve been dealing with an evil infection for over a month? If only hard drives responded to Monistat.
I tried to put the setback in perspective. I hesitate to write these words because some sinister program is probably watching as I type, but honestly, bad as it is, a computer virus is really not so bad, relatively speaking. Compared with real viruses, like Ebola or Bubonic plague, a computer worm is insignificant. I might miss a deadline, but no one’s going to die if my laptop runs slow. No one’s going to waste away if I can’t check my email or trade a stock. No village will be flooded if I can’t pay my gas bill on time.
A writing buddy recently described her falling out with a hard drive. “It was horrifying,” she said.
Horrifying?
A strong word, even for writer who’s had her words erased.
“I know,” another writer commiserated. “I went through that last fall.”
They nodded, touched hands, and their misery made me wonder if we need hospice for dying computers and grief counseling for lost manuscripts.
To be safe, guard against overconfidence around computers, especially if you’re a writer. Think about it—the innocent looking Mac or PC knows our most private thoughts, to say nothing of the passwords to our bank accounts. They are spies, and they are everywhere.
Also, beware of mocking the chat room guys, even inside your head. As soon as I got the wirus fixed, my wireless went out.