While I'm doing some VIBW (Very Important Blog Work), my parents call. I know this because their ringtone is Zappa's Jewish Princess. It is their ringtone because they're neither Jewish nor princess. Suffice it to say that I can not discuss whose ringtone is Fat Bottom Girls, for my well being.
Since this is during working hours, nobody is supposed to call me, unless something is on fire. My sixth and seventh senses tell me nothing's on fire and my Special Training on Shitty New Software sold by the Boss' Daughter is about to begin, I don't answer.
So I'm home from work, working. I'm talking to my workmate about something that was supposed to be clarified last week that is due tomorrow. My boss, bless him, is the nicest person I know. He does fourteen jobs at once. He asks for something, like a few slides on working environment, and we deliver. Before we deliver, we always have to nail him to his chair for five minutes to clarify that 'a few slides on working environment' means 'two full color PowerPoint slides for a presentation to a number of groups, on the topic of workflow in our specific little group.' He's truly the nicest person I know. Takes his kids to church three times a week. To synagogue twice a week. Every other week to a mosque.
My boss is not answering my workmate's pleas to clarify the last project, which has been going on for months, so we're less than optimistic about the project for tomorrow. We discuss this on our call, after working hours (which, as we know, may become illegal in New York). While we're talking, Marshall barks. He can always tell when there's work involved and it goes right to his bladder. So he barks and I start to growl.
Back on the phone, Workmate continues to talk, oblivious to the fact that I put the phone down 2 minutes ago. I get a few words in, when I hear silverware rattling. As I'm the only human home and Marshall can't open the door by himself, this is not good news. This is a rodent.
I'm horrified to admit this. But it's not my friggin fault. We're clean, don't leave food out, and wash dishes frequently. In the winter, they arrive all over the neighborhood, even in the antiseptic conditions of the (non-crazy) neighbor's house. If there's no food, what the hell attracts the little
My growl is growing in volume and is starting to concern my workmate, who mentions it in an offhand way. I become aware of my overload just as I'm reaching through the phone to strangle him. No, I tell myself, that will have to wait til after the presentation tomorrow.
Back to our discussion, we're coming up with ideas and someone is knocking on the door. The schizophrenic with the guns knocks in morse code, so 'they' won't know he's here. This was a more defined, whimsical knock. It's a shame that the door doesn't have individual ringtones. Because of the whimsy, it could only be the wife. Last I heard, she had house keys, although the way things have been going lately, they're with everything else she lost. I say to myself CANT I GET A SIMPLE PHONE CALL DONE WITHOUT A FLYING TRAPEZE ACT SUDDENLY MATERIALIZING in the living room?
My wife does not simply walk into a room. Fran Drescher (more likely Joan Rivers') autobiography is called Enter Laughing. My wife's is called Enter Talking, Loudly. She does precisely this and it takes all sorts of hand signals and screaming to let her know I'm on a WORK CALL. Oh, sorry.
Back to my call. Three words in, Wife stands in front of me with a bag, like there's a tremendous surprise in it. She tries to hand it to me while I'm still taking. For some reason, I get REALLY MAD and try to convey, in hand signals, that I'M WORKING. STILL. NOTHING HAS CHANGED SINCE TWO MINUTES AGO, WHEN YOU WALKED THROUGH THE DOOR that I had to open because your keys fell into some sort of multi-dimensional vortex. Or you just think it's cute that I'll open the door for you.
There are all sorts of mouse traps. Glue (inhumane), regular old (not effective), variation on regular old, with a fake cheese-like step, and these White Things. The White Things are ferocious-looking beasts, with huge, pointy teeth, but all plastic. I have no idea how a mouse could get bait out of this thing, because it closes on my finger whenever I try to bait it. It's hair bloody triggered. Wife will not go within a ten foot radius of it when it's armed.
After my call, I go into the kitchen, where there is no mouse. This worked out well, as I don't like mice. I checked the trap. I'll give you one guess what I saw. Yes, the little #*@&er ate the peanut butter. HA, I thought. I am going to win this war. I put fresh peanut butter in the trap, feeling like MacArthur. I love the smell of peanut butter in the morning.
On the way out of the kitchen, Wife wants to know where she put that bag, because she lost it. It's now been fifteen minutes since she entered the house, and in that time, she has already misplaced the bag she carried in. Maybe it's in the car.... no, Dear, it's not in the car. I know this because you tried to give it to me repeatedly while I was on the phone. Oh. Did I? I'm already through for the day and have given up rage, work, and looking for Stuff.
Apparently I had not given up grief, though.
My parents make a phone call and if no one answers, go right into Panic Mode<tm>. Because I didn't answer, they called Wife. Why hasn't she called in weeks? Does she no longer love them? [insert Charlie Brown teacher noises - wah wha wah wah.] When the first person fails to answer, they call the spouse, the kids, the landline, then the hospitals and police.
While she is regaling me with Tales of the Parents, I listen to their voicemail to me. "We were wondering what happened to Wife. She hasn't called in WEEKS and we thought something was wrong."
It's a good thing I didn't answer the phone.
'Weeks' actually means 'a few days'.
None of Wife's behavior, or for that matter, mine, is new. So why is it a surprise every time? The parents are not 90 years old and they have their wits about them, or at least keep them in the trunk at all times.
Wife goes upstairs, probably to look for the previous item she lost, and I immediately find the bag she just lost. Friend texts from vacation, in Bangkok. I don't care how old you are, Bangkok is FUNNY. Try it with me: BANGKOK. BANGKOK. heh heh... he said Bangkok. I advised him that if he goes on any dates, he should check the plumbing first.
It is unnaturally quiet as I type this. I brace for imminent arrival of a train, in the living room, next to the Flying Trapeze Act, which is still packing up before going home.
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