(from April 18th, 2006… I can’t find this in the archives, so here it is again, with comments attached.)

Really, need I say more? I don’t think so. I think the hedder suffices. But if your need to know is pressing, like the concrete backer board that was pressing against my legs this morning, here you…

There was a school district/neighborhood summit over at Humboldt Elementary last night. First the mucky-mucks from the district bored the shit out of us with yet another PowerPoint demo. (What is it with the People in Charge and their love for PowerPoint?) Really, this was their first mistake. Because people are affected by PowerPoint in one of three ways 1) They assume it will give them Power! And more Power! And they ride the fucking six pack, to quote, who? Green River? Yes! (Or “Something!” as Wacky Girl would say 2) They are bored to sleep 3) They get pissed off and the tension in the room grows. 3) Is what happened last night.

So the district is all it’ll be great! Humboldt has high test scores! Ockley Green (the school where Humboldt students would transfer) has low scores! You can help! No, it’s soooooooo not because this is a poor neighborhood. No, nothing to do with race. It’ll be fantastic, just wait!

And the House said: No. Not amen. No. No, no, no. We don’t like the adult porn store right across the street from OG. We don’t like our kids having to walk a long, long ways to get to school. We don’t like having to drive them to OG when they can walk to Humboldt. We don’t like being told what to do. No, no, no. Everyone went nuts. It is an interesting night when Wacky Mommy is the calmest person in the room. And we were on the 11 o’clock news, so that was cool. Take that, school district.

My favorite speaker of the evening was the Humboldt student, a young man, who said, All I can say now is that you guys are doing something really stupid. Period. Which of course made everyone cheer and stamp their feet.

Now today, the contractor arrives. Not the one who needs to finish repairing the floor. Mister “I needed an eight-foot board and they only cut me seven-and-a-half. I’ll be back. Or someone will. I’ll call the supervisor and he can call your husband.” No, it wasn’t the floor guy. It was the tile guy, with a delivery.

He stacked boxes of tiles, bags of Versabond, plastic sheeting, caulk, all this shit in my office. But they can’t do the tile, see, until the floor guy is done. But I’m being open-minded and all. I’m thinking, The tile, she is here! But what to do with the backer board? The guy stacks it on the front porch, tells us, If it rains it’ll need to be covered with a tarp, or it’ll get ruined, then leaves.

It rains a lot here.

He left the tarp on the table on the front porch. Can you see where this is going? I’m thinking, It’s sunny — it’s not going to rain — followed by, This is Portland, Oregon. The only time it doesn’t rain here is July 15 through Sept. 22. Roughly. So I throw the tarp over the shit (nine fucking heavy ugly concrete backer boards) and am tucking it in around the edges when it topples. On my legs. Pinning me. Turns out he had them propped Way Too Vertical. Fucking asshole idiot contractor.

Yet here I am, writing. Do you believe in miracles? Yes! No, I don’t, not so much. But I do believe in Roadmaster Trikes, cuz that’s what the boards landed on, thus saving me from the life of a parapalegic. It torqued the seat but didn’t crush it. This is the power of Roadmaster. Jesus God, your life really does flash before your eyes, it’s true. I yelled for the neighbor (not the Naked One, she wasn’t home. The Nasty One on the other side, whose house is closer) and she came over and helped me extricate myself. This makes her the Not-So-Nasty-Neighbor, no?).

Then I called, in order, the contractors, You frickin’ need to finish the bathroom right now. My legs were almost crushed. And bring my kid a new trike, ya idiot; my best friend Zip, who said, Jesus, what if it had been one of the kids? which made me cry harder, because of course that thought was already going through my head over and over and over and over; and Hockey God, who said, Did they get broken? (referring to the backer boards, not my legs, thus prompting me to hang up on him).

He realized the severity of the incident when the contractors actually called him before he had a call in to them, saying something like, Guy is on his way out, sorry we almost killed your wife, or something.

Prompting him to call me, without being asked, and asking me, Are your legs OK?

They’re OK. Thanks for asking. And thank God it wasn’t one of the kids.

2 Comments
1. edj says: I wanted to say something witty, but really, I’m just so glad you’re ok! But I have to say, will you stop at nothing to get your floor finished?

2. Heather says: Dang! I am so glad you are ok! And thank God and the Baby Jesus that it was not one of the kids although I certainly would have preferred not you either! Oh, and the whole Jefferson cluster thing just makes me throw up my hands in the air *what-are-they-thinking*! — Hugs, Heather