HCD Strikes Again

Zen master I ain't.

I got a mass email from SVdP earlier this week, once again bestowing praises and much thanks on all of us who participated in this years D2D event. You are all fantastic blah blah so impressed blah blah reminder of the date blah blah need volunteers blah blah. That sort of thing. Fine, good.

But then, with a few offhanded flicks of her wrists, the woman blithely types "Oh, the judges were here looking at the entries and we should know in the next week or two who the winners are."

Insert cartoon-like double take here.

What?!? Judging?! I demand to know what is she talking about! Sure, I thought there was gonna be some sort of informal voting at the de Young display by the people who came to check stuff out, but actual judges? Who are these judges of which you speak? And why, in the name of [deity of choice] would you go and tell us that there were still two weeks until the decision would be made?!?! Hel-LO, keep yer trap shut until you've picked winners and are ready to announce them, you moron! Don't you know you are dealing with a bunch of highly competitive perfectionists who all believe their work should win? (I refuse to believe I am the only one cut from this particular fabric out of all of these, err, fabric cutters.)

Oh yes -- and as a follow up to this little bombshell, she (doesn't!) regret to inform us that they're also in the process of picking out the garments to be put on display at various public locations (store windows, I think.)

OMG! OMG! OMG! Shut! Up! Already!

Now, I have been trying really really hard to be all cool and cucumber-like since I got this email. I have tried reminding myself that this is about raising money for a good cause. I have tried reminding myself that there are some incredibly fantastic entries this year, and that while ambitious, my dress probably might not be able to stand up to the competition. Hell, I've even tried drawing lines into the sand of Mags' sandbox, outlining Donald Duck figurines and three-wheeled Matchbox cars with a red plastic rake in hopes it would help me be more calm and zen about this whole thing.

Its no secret ("You're from the Chronicle? Why yes, I have time for an interview...") that I would like to be a 'winner' in some capacity - ok, of any sort - in voting or judging that may or may not be talking place as we speak. But if they're gonna leave me hanging like this, what I really want to do is drive up to the city and chase that woman around her desk, waving my suddenly un-zenlike Red Rake of Wrath (tm) menacingly in her direction until she buckles and gives me some sort of lame merit badge or at least tells me my dress is going to be on display in the women's room of the local Safeway. Throw me a bone here, people! Don't leave me hangin'!

Meh!