This morning I was scheduled for replacement delivery of my new television. I received my automated call yesterday, informing me that delivery would occur between 8:30 and 10:30.
So I was laying in bed this morning at around 8:15, willing myself to get my lazy butt up, but reasoning that I had another 14 minutes before I absolutely had to be up. And then the doorbell rang. Ooooops.
It was, of course, my friends The Nice Delivery Guys, who were either unsurprised to find me in my pajamas and a 15-year-old college sweatshirt or prudently pretending oblivion in the hopes that I would tip them again. It’s raining outside (again), and they tracked mud all over my kitchen floor, but I did not care! Because they had my replacement television! We had a nice chat while they unhooked the old (new) TV and then brought in the new (new) TV. They finished in record time, and we turned it on.
And saw… a fuzzy line down the left-hand side. Exactly like the other one. Helllooooooooo? Alan Funt? Are you out there? This is a set-up, right?
My new buddies The Nice Delivery Guys and I stood around and pondered our course of action. I filled them in on the saga of getting this replacement and told them I wasn’t sure I was up to the task of going through that again. Then Nice Delivery Guy Number 1 made a call on his cell phone and told me “it’s all taken care of, call this number in 10 minutes.” Well. That was… mysterious. Ooookey.
I bid them farewell, feigning cheerfulness at the prospect of seeing them again soon, and promising to be dressed, next time. (“That’s okay,” Nice Delivery Guy Number 2 answered with a grin, “you’re wearing a lot more than the lady at our last delivery!” Ummm… ewwww?) I closed the door behind them, grabbed a spare towel, and started working on the muddy footprints left behind. Damn rain. All this mess on my floors, and what do I have to show for it? Another defective TV! Wow!
Naturally I was working myself into a pretty good funk when Monkey came careening around the corner shouting “OUTTA MY WAY I GOTS TO GO POTTY REAL BAD!!!” I got “outta his way” right quick, but I was puzzled. As I have mentioned here on numerous occasions, my dear sweet Monkey sleeps the sleep of the dead. As such, he continues to wear a pull-up at night and soak it regularly. In the continuing yet hopeless attempt to get him nighttime potty-trained, I usually get him up and take him to the bathroom before I turn in for the night, with varying degrees of success. Since my surgery I have abandoned this delightful ritual, as lifting fortyish pounds of snoring potatoes and then being peed upon is kind of a post-op no-no. And quite honestly, even with this late-night trip, he’s only been dry in the morning a limited number of times.
Now he was flying into the bathroom, and peeing… well… a lot. When he’d only been up for about fifteen minutes. Peculiar. I checked his pull-up. Dry as a bone. Dry as the Sahara! Dry from 8:00 last night until 8:45 this morning!
And there was much rejoicing, and dancing, and perhaps even a little bit of singing, because it is possible that we have a special song invented for just such an occasion as this. It is also possible that my darling boy enjoys shaking his booty, and other… uhhh… bits, naked, to such a song; and that an onlooker might conclude we celebrate a dry night by making him practice for a Chippendales audition. It is also likely that this accomplishment–revelry aside–was 1) a fluke, 2) an indication that Monkey is dangerously dehydrated, or 3) both. But we take joy where we can get it, here! And we got us some!
Following the celebration, I called the mysterious number Nice Delivery Guy Number 1 had given me. It was a direct line to the department manager at my local Excellent Purchase. He promised to take a television out of the box and test it at the store before letting the guys deliver it, and he promised it on Friday. Not too bad, I suppose. Besides, third time’s the charm… right?
By the way… dry pull-ups? Are great for cleaning up muddy footprints.