This past week was a WEEK. I was stressed, I was crabby, I was overwhelmed. I was forgetting things I never forget, like showing up in my son’s classroom to help. I had so many balls in the air I kept waiting for a biggie to drop.
At 3 a.m. Thursday, I woke with a start. We're Catholic, and I realized Jack’s First Communion was Saturday. I was supposed to have a luncheon for 25 people. And my Thursday and Friday were so packed with cemented to-dos I knew I didn’t have a minute to plan a menu, shop for groceries or make a single dish.
By 7 a.m., I was on the phone with one of my best friends from forever. We go way back – almost 30 years – and her family business is catering, so she was the 911 call I needed to make.
I explained my problem, and she yawned, and said, “I'm on it. I’ll handle it. By the way, the chef is going to kill you for always being last-minute with this stuff. You drive him nuts.”
“I know, I know. But I thought I could do it. And I can’t. And I’m the teacher for the second grade, so I’ve got to worry about getting all these kids through the mass. I can’t stress about the party.”
I knew the wheels were spinning in her head when she said, “Hmmm, I’ll tell him it won’t happen again.”
“Okay. Whatever. Thanks for saving me.”
Now, this particular friend of mine is Jewish. This has little bearing on anything, until she texted me the morning of the party.
“Did you invite the priest?” No.
“Don’t show your dad the cake. He’ll have a heart attack.” Okaaay…
“You love me, right?” Uh oh.
I ran over and opened the box.
She got the last laugh.