Haute Flash Contessa

Rants, ramblings, raves of a woman who blames everything from road rage to undercooked pork chops on a hormone imbalance.

Thursday, April 14, 2005

ABC Tree Trimmers Needs Marketing Help

ABC Tree Trimmers sent a sales rep to the house this morning. The company is removing trees from a neighbor's yard and the rep is checking around to see if anyone else needs a tree taken down.

ABC needs to send the rep out in the evenings or weekends when the men are home. It's not because we little women are incapable of making those decisions. No, siree, I made up my mind the minute I opened the door.

Standing before me was Alana, a dead ringer for Pamela Andersen - right down to the bleach-blonde hair, ripped jeans, flat abs, and big boobs. Huge boobs. Not real boobs. The kind of boobs not made for bras. I didn't realize how cool outside it was until I talked to the young woman. Thank goodness she wore a knit top.

Nope, we don't have any dead trees around here, I told her. I'd call her when we do, I said, letting her know that I took care of all the tree chopping chores in this household, along with sod-laying and mulch-spreading just in case she got any ideas.

I'm thankful my husband works in an office forty miles away where the only view is the Loop 610 traffic.

Monday, April 11, 2005

Run To The Basement...Or Not

I looked out the window and noticed a black sky, turning early morning into late night. I flipped on the tv to discover a tornado was sighted nearby.

The kids are home from school and Cat had a friend spend the night so I sent them into my bedroom (next to an interior closet if we needed it) and ran upstairs to wake the boys to bring them down.

When I came back down the stairs, I saw that both girls were huddled on the floor, curled up in little balls with their heads tucked into their knees and hands clasped over their heads.

"What in the world are you doing?"

"Tornado drill," they said in unison, neither bothering to lift her head.

Apparently when we're under a tornado warning during the school day, teachers line students up in window-less halls and direct the children to crouch on the floor and cover their heads they way the girls did this morning. It looks to me the only instruction left out was kissing their hineys good-bye.

So much for tornado protection in the land of no basements.

Thursday, April 07, 2005

A Really Bad Day

Some days I think I'm the Invisible Man. No one sees me. I move room-to-room, picking up dirty clothes and tripping over backpacks while my teenagers continue their quest to set the world's record for posting the most Instant Messages before answering their mother. Just before breakfast a neighbor comes to the door and my daughter tells her, "Mom's not around. I think she went to the movies." This coming within a commercial break of my yelling at her to get moving.

I try sulking and pouting. Once I curled up in a ball in the middle of the floor hoping one of the kids would fall over me. Visions of sorrowful children gently lifting me to my feet, fighting over who would get to scrub toilets, filled my head. They just stepped over me. Another time I cried. The Big Guy told me to take something for my allergies.

As much as I love wallowing in self-pity, I've now given it up, thanks to the delivery guy from Happy Dragon restaurant in New York. He delivered an order to a high-rise in the city and got stuck in the elevator. For three friggin days. He screamed and pounded but no one came. For three friggin days. The building had a security guard on staff and video cameras operating but no one saw or heard him. For three friggin days. He pushed the emergency call button but no one came. For three friggin days. What, did everyone in the building decide to take the stairs? For three friggin days?!!

To top it off, he didn't have any food or water. He had just dropped off his last order of the day before getting into the elevator.

Mr. Delivery Guy, I feel your pain.

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

Do You Believe It?

I heard an interesting stat recently. Eighty percent of perimenopausal women say they suffer from hot flashes. The other twenty percent are lying.

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