Quit Hitting On Me

I’m so tired of being hit on. I’m not talking about guys, though that can get overwhelming too. I went to the beach for a couple of days to catch up on writing, and this semi-toothless drunk tried to pick me up with an offer of a quick beer while I was waiting for Chinese take out. Granted, at 8:00 pm on a Sunday night, he probably figured he had nothing to lose. Still, I seem to attract more than my share of ill-suited suitors. Like the short, bald, pudgy checkout clerk at the grocery store, who, I have to give credit, did have a complete set of teeth. It’s insulting that these people think they have a chance with me.

No, I’m talking about being hit on to bake snacks, volunteer for committees, buy Sally Foster gift wrap—in other words, donate my time, talent, and treasure at work, church, my children’s schools, for my family and friends, the neighborhood dogs, my boss, and a couple of invisible spiders who breed incessantly and oblige me to rescue their offspring from the guest bathtub.

Before you start thinking that I’m just a whiner, let me assure you that I am. I complain to everyone about this stuff, but it does no good.

I know the reason why there are so many volunteer opportunities these days.  It’s committees. Every time you get a bunch of people together, at a luncheon, a PTA meeting, waiting for a red light, they’ll come up with something new and wonderful and fun, and they’ll need volunteers to pull it off. These people have no shame – unless it’s the shame they make you feel when you attempt to say no.

They form subcommittees and coerce volunteers to chair them, and the people in charge of their little piece of the action get very excited and want to do a really bang up job.  That’s when the emails start flying from all directions – guilt tripping pleas for donations for auction baskets, or to set up and tear down, or watch everyone’s kids during planning meetings that last three hours.

I especially love the emails saying that every family is expected to do their part to help pull this gargantuan extravaganza off for the sake of the children.  Oh, please. For all the expense they’ll plan into it, it’s going to barely break even, much less raise any money for the cause.

If I could find that toothless drunk right now, I’d go for a beer just to calm me down. Instead, I’ll be whipping up brownies to satisfy the latest email sent to poor, mistreated, so-called “volunteers.”  Makes me want to spit – and you might be wise to avoid my brownies. Just kidding, maybe.