incompetence, or how to get pamela's head to explode

Today was the fourth or fifth golf tournament I've helped organize for Habitat. Of Genesee County. I have neither the brain power, nor the energy, nor the money to pay a babysitter to organize a national golf tournament. And pssst...I don't especially care for golf. But that is another post for another day.

I really do enjoy organizing events. I cannot describe to you why that is, but I just do. And I am okay with that.

Except for this tournament that happened today.

I just didn't care. I didn't even care that I didn't care. Usually I am all worked up about it, when I realize I'm having a Don't Care That I Don't Care Moment. But not this time. I kindasorta did what I was supposed to do, just enough to get stuff mostly done. And I'm not saying that in any sort of bragging fashion, or with any kind of attitude. Except blase'. I am totally blase'. And I know that the ' is not the appropriate accent francoise there. I don't care about that, either. Blase', I tell you.

I found myself caring yesterday, much to my surprise, as I stood in Office Max, at the ImPress counter, no less. NOT IMPRESSED. I called the copy desk, and spoke with a reallive person who guaranteed me she would watch for the email I was about to send with my enormous order in it. And she also guaranteed me that I could pick it up between 3 and 4 o'clock that day, a mere 2 to 3 hours later.

Except, pretty much not.

I stood in that hateful store waiting for her to laminate things. For TWO. (ENTER YOUR FAVORITE EXPLETIVE HERE, MINE STARTS WITH EFFING). HOURS.

And when she had finally finished, and my hair had turned completely grey, and the elastin in my cheeks had let go and my formerly perky cheeks turned into jowls, and I found myself on blood pressure medication, and I had chewed off every last shred of fingernail, she wouldn't accept my New York State Tax Exempt Certificate. She was sweet enough to call the manager, and the manager suggested I come back for a refund when I had my Office Max Tax Exempt Certificate.

I suggested that the manager come back. Because really, it is the law that they take the tax off HFH's purchases. And also, I was no longer In The Mood.

We had a chat, the manager and I, and she was all, Sorry, this is our policy, and I was all, Sorry, this is the law, and she was all, Well, maybe you're in our computer, and I was all, I don't care if I am, I have been in this store for two hours, and I want to leave one hour and forty-five minutes ago, and she was all, Oh, look, there you are, right here in the computer, you lovely and loyal customer, and I was all, Stop bloody talking and check me out already and by the way, I want some serious money off this ridiculous bill for having to endure the past two hours of my life that I will never get back.

And I was the winner. The End.

Of the Office Max portion of the story.

This morning, I was running late, not due to the things that normally cause me to be late, but because I had no shirts. Clean shirts. And seeing as how I do not run THAT KIND of tournament, I opted to wait for the dryer.

And then I went to the grocery store to pick up the rolls for the Great and Awesome Pig Roast By Rook (if you are in the area, and you need a man to roast your piggy, I highly recommend this man and his contraption).

I walked up to the bakery counter, and the nice young man was there. The nice young man who had taken my order for rolls and a sheet cake on Wednesday, when I actually went to the store, in person, with my children, for no other reason than to place the order.

Waste of $4.25 gas, that trip was. Both trips, actually. Wednesday and today.

Because somehow, somewhere, someway, somedumbass THREW MY ORDER IN THE TRASH CAN. I went in person to make sure my order would be correct. I went in person to be sure I wouldn't be forced to have an aneurysm and have my head explode the morning of my event.

The nice young man was terrified when he saw me. Even before he spoke, I knew it was bad freaking news. You see, on Wednesday, the children found themselves having a teensyweensy bit of behavior problem at the grocery store, and apparantly it was shocking to him the way I parent (read: the way I am the person in charge and they are the obedient children and do my bidding)...must be something new for him. I think he was afraid I was going to go all Behavior Management Queen on his ass or something.

And sometimes fear is justified.

To his credit, he told me straight away that my order had been thrown out, and the cake was not made. He didn't make up some story or blame anyone. Even so, I found myself unable to close my gaping mouth, or re-insert my eyes in their proper places. Because really, people, I have a serious appreciation for store-bought cake, and I really needed to be serving some store-bought something for dessert six hours later.

I said, There's no cake? in a very quiet and restrained voice, except it was totally not that voice, it was the voice that is fairly shriek-y and causes glass to shatter and makes puppies whimper.

And suddenly, every employee in my line of vision became very interested in solving this problem. I should remind you that my eyes were still popped out of my head, and my field of vision was much greater than normal. That included a LOT of employees.

I used that same quiet and restrained voice, you know, The Puppy Killer Voice, and suggested that they concoct some sort of cake, enough to feed 75 people, and deliver it like the pizza boy, to the golf course, because if I had to come back to that store, I was going to be physically unable to refrain from using profanity. And lots of it. And I had better get a really, really REALLY good deal on the cake, and it had better be the best cake I have ever eaten in my life and people I eat cake.

So then I asked about the dinner rolls. (I had ordered 9 dozen.) The frightened little grandma bakeress ran back and brought out a paper grocery bag... ONE paper grocery bag, with the top of the bag all folded down five or six times, forming a nice, tinylittle parcel. She presented this to me with a nervous smile.

Where are the rest of my rolls? I ordered 9 dozen. The voice was back.

They hadn't made my rolls, either. Now they were really scared. And my head was spinning around, and the fire coming from my mouth, ears and nostrils was beginning to form a funnel cloud.

I don't care what kind of rolls you give me, but I need 9 dozen. Right now. Dang voice always sounds like that when I am breathing fire.

I got 9 dozen very lovely rolls. For $10. And I left the store.

And my cake(s) were delivered. And they were good. And I have the leftovers in my kitchen. Because I loves me some cake.

And I am the winner. The End.

This is so long already that I will not discuss the thunderstorm and the excessive amounts of rain and the public drunkenness of some of the other volunteers.

The Actual End.