“Merlotta’s on the phone. She’s fallen on the floor and can’t get up,” the Big Guy hollered.

“Tell her to call someone who cares.”

Merlotta and Contessa actually are close friends – during summer. We spend our mornings driving around the YMCA’s parking lot, coming up with excuses to skip workout. Afternoons, we sip low-fat licorice lattés while watching “Oprah.” But after Labor Day, Merlotta trades her spot in front of “The View” for the front line of the VP - Volunteer Patrol. She, along with an army of women, hits the streets recruiting moms to lead PTA committees, sell wrapping paper, or teach Sunday school.

No tactic is beneath the VP. They’ll pop up in Kroger’s produce section and compliment you on your fresh melons. Before you can squeeze a cantaloupe, they’re asking you to man the school’s carnival dunking booth. No place is sacred. You’ll be in the church bathroom and someone from the next stall generously hands over a roll of toilet paper – along with Project Graduation raffle tickets that need selling.

I’ve been on to their tricks ever since the PTA president at Cat’s school duped me into serving as hospitality chairman. I thought she wanted a hostility chairman.

It’s not that I’m anti-volunteerism. Au contraire! The Contessa has been known to cut short her time on Dr. Phil’s couch so she could cook a meal for a family in need. There’s exactly enough time during commercial breaks to whip up tuna-ramen noodle whoopee. Despite my penchant for altruism, a turning point came the day Choir Mom called.

“We need you to bring a crock pot of little smokies or meatballs,” said the mom in charge of refreshments for Pinot & Grigio’s holiday choir party.

I hadn’t used a kitchen appliance other than a corkscrew in months, and since I was fairly certain my sommelier services wouldn’t be needed, I thought maybe she’d let me bake cookies. She sure let me buy gobs of pre-mixed dough during last year’s fundraiser.

Name her poison, I said. German Chocolate, Chocolate Peanut Butter, Snicker Doodle —I’ve got ‘em all, enough for 200 dozen.

“No, we’ve got those covered.”

I bet she did. Probably from her stash.

“Gee, let me know which you prefer because I’ve never cooked meatballs or weenies.” HINT. HINT. Choir Mom didn’t buy it.

“You can purchase pre-cooked meatballs or weenies at the store,” she said, trying to convince me turning out goodies in the kitchen was no big deal. Sure. I run through two test batches of cookies just to come up with a couple that don’t resemble charcoal briquettes. My last effort at hard-boiling eggs left my ceiling plastered with yellow blobs. How was I to know water evaporated after only three hours of heavy boiling, or that the pot would transform into a rocket launcher? It’s not as if Contessa and Bill Nye are happy hour buddies.

“Aren’t they supposed to have something thrown in with them?” I asked, hoping my ignorance would light a bulb in this woman’s head. Maybe she’d figure the kids might not be safe with me stirring the pot, er, crock pot.

Choir Mom didn’t fall for that one, either. Barbecue sauce is a snap, she claimed. “Just twist off the cap and pour.” I was stuck.

That evening, I lugged my five-quart crock pot to the party, sloshing sauce all over my thongs. The ones on my feet. I spotted a dad carrying a grocery sack filled with bags of potato chips. Then, I passed a woman toting ONE bag of Fritos! So how did Contessa get roped into slaving over a crock pot of gourmet meatballs when everyone else got to grab-n-go?

That’s OK. Next time choir ladies ask me to prepare a lavish dish, I’ll have my answer: “What’s a crock pot?”

If that doesn’t work, a dose of Tabasco sauce and jar of jalapeno juice should.

Danielle Schaaf is the author of “Don’t Chew Jesus!” and can be contacted at hauteflashcontessa@yahoo.com.