“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Pinot asked, taking a break from his morning push-up.

“Nope, it’s only a prowler.”

“It sure looks like Merlotta,” Grigio added, breaking out in a sweat over topping his three sit-ups-in-a-row record. “She’s wearing that red hat you hate.”

Yep, it was Merlotta, on the prowl for dupes, er, volunteers. Every year she marches through the neighborhood on a hunt for do-gooders to help her out with one cause or another. I managed to hide from her last year but Pinot & Grigio weren’t as lucky. She roped them into an adopt-a-boy auction for her pet charity, Moolah for Moos. High bidders took home a teenage boy to help with chores and the money went to feed starving cows. It’s amazing how much feed 50 cents can buy.

Riiing. Riiing. Riiing.

She wasn’t falling for the crime scene tape across the walkway. I caved in and opened the door

“You can’t come in. The place is quarantined.”

“Oh, the health inspector dropped by again,” Merlotta said, breezing by me and plopping herself on the sofa, blocking my view of “The View.”

“Nice upholstery redo,” she said. “The blue tarp curtains bring out the green flecks in your carpet.” Hmm, must’ve missed a few spots of cat yerp.

“I have an assignment right up your alley,” she said. Oh, she must need a wine taster. I’m in.

“No, this is more rewarding,” she gushed. More rewarding than vino table-hopping? A taste of Zin here, a sip of Chianti there, a chug of pinot noir and then you move to the next table and start all over again? I think not.

“It’ll be a great mother-daughter bonding opportunity for you and Cat.” Warning, Will Robinson, warning! The closest Cat and I get to mother-daughter bonding is riding the escalator at Neiman Marcus.

“We need you to chaperone the YMCA middle school dance,” Merlotta said. She may as well have asked me to tame a prison uprising. Same difference. Okay, prisoners don’t pout, roll their eyes, or wear skinny jeans with phony rips in them.

Maybe it was the attraction of spending an evening out that didn’t involve dragging trash cans to the curb but I agreed ¯and plunged to depths of hell that made Dante’s Inferno look like an Australian ice bar. Sure, I say that every time I clean Pinot & Grigio’s bathroom but chaperoning 300 pre-teens had me yearning to scrub soap scum.

I’m not sure why it’s called a dance because the kids hopped. Up and down, sideways, back and forth, they hopped. And I was stuck in the middle, kinda like a handful of Mexican jumping beans with a kidney bean mixed in by mistake.

Dance organizers were teens themselves, not too many years older than their charges. Parents were required to volunteer in order for their kids to attend. Misery loves company. KICs (kids in charge) armed us with flashlights and said to shine a light on inappropriate behavior, like dancing too close or rough-housing. Sorta like spraying a hose on two dogs. After an hour on non-stop hopping, in an overcrowded, under-cooled gymnasium, a spraying would’ve been well received. The kids might’ve liked it, too.

KICs said if any of the jumping beans got out of hand, turn the trouble-makers over to them. They didn’t think we parents should be burdened with disciplining the kids. Right. Take away my one chance for enjoyment.

At least it’s over. Until next spring. Maybe Cat will take up another, less frenetic interest by then. Wonder if she’d go for mud wrestling?

Danielle Schaaf is the co-author of Don’t Chew Jesus! and can be contacted at hauteflashcontessa@yahoo.com. Read more of what the Contessa has to say at www.hauteflashcontessa.blogspot.com.