Major League Idiot

20 Apr

On a recent Tuesday afternoon I was elbows deep in cookie dough, happily engrossed in the activity of baking cookies with my 3 sons.  They were cracking the eggs and leveling the flour and taking turns stirring as we added craisins, chocolate chips and walnuts to pack these treats with extra healthy energy.  We were making these cookies to send along with my husband on his annual camping trip with his college buddies. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I was sort of known for the cookies I send with the campers.  So not only was I feeling like the Mother of All Mothers as my happy little band of brothers cooperated in the kitchen, but I was also feeling like the Wife of All Wives– thinking of how all the weary men would gratefully be singing my praises as they cut in to a bag of my homemade treats after a long day out on the dusty trail.  

Suddenly the fantasy of a bunch of “Hungry He-Men Hikers Devouring My Delicious Cookies” was interrupted by a loud knock at the door.

Standing on my front porch was a high school aged boy who looked like he’d just walked off the set of “The Hills” or “The OC” or “Lifestyles of the Idle Rich and Ridiculous.”  He was all about the $200 jeans with permanent crotch creases and elaborately stitched back pockets, sissy-ish skater shoes and carefully gelled hair.  I know I’m a middle-aged, Midwestern, mother of young children, but it didn’t stop me from wanting to beat him up the moment I laid eyes on him.

     “Can I help you?”  I cooly inquired.

     “Hi there,Ma’am” he said, offering me his soft hand in a slightly damp and decidedly wimpy handshake. “I’m here selling magazine subscriptions to hot moms like you to raise money to help send our club baseball team to a tournament in Hawaii.  Now, personally, my family can easily afford to buy my plane ticket, but there are some dudes on our team that need a little help, so I’m out here doing my part to help them so they can join the team in Hawaii.  Can I count on you to purchase a magazine subscription that will allow a young man to play baseball? “

Seriously.  That’s what he said.

As if I didn’t want to beat him up before…  

I stood there, stupified by the display of arrogance before me.  What did I care if this obnoxious jerk and his posse of pampered pansies got to fly to Hawaii to play baseball?  If I wanted to “donate” my hard-earned money to send anybody on a Hawaiian vacation, believe me, I would start with myself.  

     “No thanks.”  

     “But there are some great magazine subscriptions here, and you’d be donating to a great cause.”  

     “Sorry.”

     “Here, just look at this list of great magazines you could choose from” he said as he attempted to press the laminated list into my clenched hand.

     “Really, I don’t want to waste your time.  I’m not interested in any magazine subscriptions…” I said, taking a step backward and readying myself to close the door.

     “OK, then how about just making a donation so all of the guys who can’t afford it can come to Hawaii with the rest of us who can.”  

At this point I was ready to pay the kid something just to get his jeans off my front porch.  I asked my son to run and get me my wallet.  

     “How about writing us a check for $100?” he said.  Perfectly straightfaced.  

     “Are you kidding me? There’s no way I am going to write  you a check for $100.”  I looked in my wallet.  All I had was $10 bucks.  “Here” I said, thrusting the bill forward, interested only in buying my freedom.  

He pretended not to notice the paltry bill in my hand.  “Then how about just writing a check for $20? C’mon, it’s for a good cause…”

     “Ten bucks. Take it or leave it” I icily replied.  My irritation clouding my better judgement which would have dictated me shutting the door in his face 10 minutes ago…

     “You won’t even write us a check for $20?” he asked, slowly, increduously… He looked at me with a mix of amazement and disgust.  Like he’d never seen someone so cheap in his entire life. His entire indulged, indolent life.  

I narrowed my gaze, shaking my head and slowly lowering my outstretched hand with the bill.

Then he simply uttered:  “WOW

With a flick of my wrist I slammed the door in his face.  

My young son stood there mouth agape, having witnessed the whole exchange.  I’m not sure he knew what to make of the prettyboy on the front porch who spoke so rudely to his mommy.  Or the mommy who so impolitely just slammed a door in the idiot’s face.

     “Son, I don’t ever want you to talk to a grown up the way that that boy just talked to me.  He was very rude and set a very poor example.”  

     “Yeah,” my young son added, “and he dressed like a girl.”

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