Blacklisted from the PTA by Lela Davidson Read Free Book Online Page B

message that I had better switch over to real power before my battery died. Afraid to lose any portion of the Important Masterpiece I had been writing, I immediately checked everything—the plug that goes into the computer, the black box it feeds into, and the wall socket. All plugged in. My machine made good on its threat and died. I switched outlets. Nothing. Over and over I powered up and the computer shut down, back into hibernation—trying, I assume, to save what little juice was left in its battery. Finally, it made a high pitched wheezing sound and gave up humoring me completely.
I’m dead already! 
    The black screen stared at me. The blinky-blinky orange light on the power button disappeared. What I had neglected to inspect before—the cord—I now found broken, possibly mistaken for a rawhide by the dog I feed and bathe and medicate.
    When I whined to my husband that I was on my way to Best Buy for a new power cord, he told me we had a universal cord in the desk drawer. When I hear the word, “universal,” I think of something easy, something equipped with its own internal superior knowledge that allowed it to operate without my help, something even a techno-loser writer could figure out.
    Right. The universal cord had several tips to choose from and several pieces that all seemed to fit together. I eventually figured out the correct order to connect the pieces, but even fully assembled, the master of all power sources wouldn’t turn my computer on. I checked the ports again. All were in order so I gave up on the omnipotent power cord and took everything to Best Buy where two guys younger than my Compaq told me I needed a new cord. Perhaps I would like the $149 model. (Not that they’re on commission or anything.)
    In desperation I visited the Geek Squad desk where I was outrageously lucky to get a wildly talented geek. She listened to my story and offered a few tricks. While she spoke, and without breaking eye contact, she gently turned my computer over, effortlessly located the release, moved the battery slightly, and closed the compartment. Elegantly and without any overt display of ego, she sent me on my way to try the universal cord once more.
    At home, the tones of the power-up sequence melted my shoulder tension and let me know that I would live to log in another day. All it had taken was a loving touch.
The machines aren’t so different from us after all. I guess that’s why we’re so dependent on them.

Three Steps to Good Housekeeping
     
    M
Y NAME IS L ELA AND I HAVE A HOUSEKEEPER . D ON ’ T JUDGE ME . I’ve done enough of that myself. I’ve also tried to handle the housework myself—even enlisted the kids in a weekly ritual to rid our home of the odor of dog and used Kleenex. The routine consisted of making a list of chores, cranking up the Jonas Brothers, and setting a timer for an hour. It was ugly, but in the end the house was clean—not white glove clean, but good enough.
    I would follow up throughout the week nagging the children to pick up their things until I ran out of saliva. This system worked for a while, but the kids complained and I got tired of yelling. We slacked off. When I once again feared picking up a staph infection from my own bathroom, I knew I needed help.
Step 1: Admit that you are powerless over your poor housekeeping.
    The grime coating my best wedding gift vase was so thick I’d forgotten its original color; dust bunnies had morphed into a pack of vicious jackrabbits under my sofas; and there were leftovers in the fridge dating back to the Bush Administration. It’s like a disease, this inability to scrub grout and polish porcelain. Clearly, I was not in control. So why feel so guilty about outsourcing? I’m only trying to set a good example. I wouldn’t want my children to think a woman is supposed to do everything. That would be wrong.
Step 2: Realize that the solution lies in a higher power (i.e. a housekeeper).
    I called the woman who used to