Eureka!
I don’t know why I didn’t put it all together, sooner. The answer has been right under my nose all along! Actually, right on my toes.
Part of my employment woes, you know, are that I don’t want to return to the sort of job I used to hold. And I’m having some difficulty convincing potential employers of my credibility for other sorts of jobs, the types of which usually require extensive previous experience. But now I know what job is calling my name and I will have no trouble breaking into, on account of my undeniable talent in this area.
I’m gonna be a… a… what the hell are those people called? I’m gonna be one of those people who name nailpolish colors!
The idea took shape in this way: I was doing my toenails, earlier; taking off the old polish and applying the new. And as I perused my rather impressive assortment of polishes, I realized that the colors I favored last season and the ones I typically reach for, now, are very different. How so, you ask? Well it’s really quite the delineation.
Last year, I wore the following: Ink Chrome, Pink Chrome, Think Pink, Bronzeberry.
This year, I have consistently reached for: Diamonds, Twilighting, Purplexed, Techno.
Now you may be thinking, surely the difference is based on color palette, somehow. Perhaps I have adjusted my tastes to suit this season’s hottest styles. Well, that would be a logical thing to think, I suppose, if I wasn’t sitting here in clothes I purchased ten years ago. Fads, schmads, I say. I am not motivated by “the latest thing” very often. No, my friends. The difference lays not in the colors, but in the monikers.
That’s right. Bombastic is the new black, ladies!
And who better to name a bunch of nailpolishes in obtuse and specious ways than yours truly? That’s right! No one! Because I? Eat words for breakfast! No, not Alpha-Bits. I meant… oh shut up.
I was born to take this industry by storm. I’m very excited about it.
Look again at the polish names I listed earlier. In last year’s list, I’m betting you can read the names and know what colors you’re getting. In the second list–with the possible exception of Purplexed, which is excused on account of being such a cute and adorable play on words–I daresay the average human would have no idea what colors are denoted. And therein lies the beauty of it all.
Diamonds? Kind of a peachy rust color. Twilighting? Silver sparkle with a hint of lavender. Purplexed, yes, is purple; but the darkest purple possible, kind of an oil-prism-in-a-puddle dark. And Techno is light green. Of course.
I am bursting with ideas for next season’s hottest colors. I’d love to share them all, but I can’t divulge all of my secrets, you know, because of copyright considerations. Also, outstanding warrants. But anyway. I can share a chosen few if you promise to keep it under your hats. Do you feel all warm and fuzzy now?
First, I will find just the right color to dub Conflagration. Oh yes. Next? Just wait til everyone is wearing Frenetic. Uh huh. But all the ladies on the catwalk will be sporting Clandestiny! (See how I brilliantly merge ‘clandestine’ and ‘destiny’ for that one? Sometimes I astound even myself.)
Best of all? While my new vocation will bring me fame, fortune, and oodles of money, it should still leave me with ample time to blog. And paint my toenails.
When insects attack
I have angered the athropods. I have made one too many of their brethren go splat beneath my shoe, sucked up too many important members of their legions in my vacuum. Now? I am a marked woman.
Pride should prevent me from relating the details of my wasp encounter earlier today, but since when has that ever stopped me? So. If you must know, I was outside mowing my lawn, and I guess I must have disturbed a nest when getting close to the bulkhead in the back. As I turned away from that spot, a wasp landed on my sock and stung my ankle. I flicked it off and ran around front (not knowing how many of his brothers were also in pursuit), and saw a second wasp on my sneaker. So I kicked my sneaker off in the driveway and ran inside. After what I thought was a reasonable period of time, I went back outside to retrieve my shoe. But the wasp was still on it. So I carefully shook him off and moved a safe distance away and put my sneaker on. And got stung a second time (sneak attack). I went back inside. Watching my leg swell, I summoned all my courage. This was hardly fatal; I would go out and finish mowing. I went out back and started up the mower again… and was immediately stung a third time inbetween the first two stings. Whereupon I admitted defeat (or screamed and cried, whatever) and decided that I was finished for the day.
When I hobbled inside–noting that three wasp stings on the same leg adds up to a heck of a lot of pain–I found that a veritable horde of earwigs had congregated around the threshhold. While I’d been dancing with wasps, they’d all sent out the signals to their distant cousins that now would be a great time to come on in and get comfortable, because I was gonna be too slow to do anything about it. I managed to evict just one; the rest are now hiding in here, somewhere. Let’s see… they came in the mudroom door, which means they’re probably all hiding in our shoes waiting to pinch off everyone’s toes.
In the meantime, I appear to have yet another infestation of grain moths, which means that tiny little moth larvae inch their way across my kitchen ceiling with disgusting regularity. Every time this happens, I get all ikked out and end up throwing away half the food in my pantry in a desperate attempt to dispose of moth headquarters. I rarely find the source. Each tiny worm gives me another grey hair.
And let’s not forget my musical friends! I estimate there to be at least a dozen crickets singing the blues in my garage. When I open the garage door–day or night–I can watch the crickets run in as if this is the grand opening of the first cricket McDonald’s or something. They resist my attempts to shoo them back outside, and so late at night they can be heard mournfully chirping about their sad fate, left to perish amongst the empty cardboard boxes and gardening tools. Do you speak cricket? I think they may be saying, “We know the Big Macs are here. We’ll keep looking.”
If you see a cloud of locusts headed my way, don’t worry. Maybe they’ll eat the earwigs and scare the moths. Of course, they might try to kill me, but I’m not worried. I shouldn’t have any trouble fighting them off with my swollen, venom-filled leg. Ow.
Three more reasons
Yellow jackets who are pissed that I’ve been spraying their hives all Summer.
Go ahead. Ask me why that’s three reasons.
*whimper* Lawn’s mowed.
And now… a word about Fall
Hatred. Maybe even complete Hateration. Hatingnessism, perhaps.
Oh, did you want more than that? Picky, picky. It’s always more, and then certain people come around here accusing me of being verbose. Which I just don’t get, as I am so loathe to prattle on about myself. HAHA! Sorry, that was a little too much sarcasm, even for me. Ahem. Okay, regardless, so many of my fellow bloggers have been waxing philosophic about their deep love for Autumn that I do feel I must elaborate.
Now, for normal people, Spring is the season that is hardest on the allergy-prone. And I have trouble with my allergies in the Spring, too. But for reasons that I don’t understand–mainly because I haven’t thought about it too much–Fall is much harder on my allergies than any other season. The onset of Fall finds me wandering around with squinty, itchy eyes and an aching face that feels very much as if my sinuses were filled with caulk. You’re not going to catch me breaking out into a spontaneous rendition of “I Feel Pretty” in the Fall. Add to this the fact that the kids are back to school and already bringing home every cold germ in the western hemisphere, and I am just not a happy upper respiratory system.
Yesterday, I was driving to my therapy session, and realized that I was quite wheezy. Having a lot of trouble breathing, in fact. So I whipped out my albuterol inhaler and had a couple of puffs. Problem solved. Well, wheeziness solved. New problem: my entire body was now shaking and jittering with an audible buzz. My hands shook, my thighs trembled (not in a good way), my toes tapped, and I was dizzy. I spent the first half of my session giggling at glass-breaking pitch and reassuring my therapist that I had not developed an amphetamine habit, it’s just that albuterol makes me a little wiggy. TEE HEE! OH DID MY BOUNCING LEG KNOCK OVER YOUR PLANT? TEE HEE! I’M SO EMBARRASSED, I’M SO TEE HEE SORRY!!! ALSO TEE HEE DEPRESSED! TEE! HEE!
Let’s review: Please choose between breathing easily or not being a total asshat. Hmmmm. That can be a tough one.
But! You say. Surely I am enjoying the Fall foliage here in New England, an area famous for its splendorous displays in this season. Yes. Sure. I have no job, dwindling savings, high-maintenance children, and an ex who stubbornly refuses to fall into a large pit in the earth and be consumed, and some red and yellow leaves make me realize that I am but an insignificant speck in the great circle of life.
Tee. Hee.
Also? Those pretty leaves? Very pretty on the trees, I’ll grant you that. Not so pretty on my lawn. And pine needles… don’t even get me started. (Oh, hey! I think I just figured out the allergy thing. Didja see the little lightbulb going off over my head? I’m allergic to pine. Ding ding ding!) Not so much pine in the Spring, I’m guessing. But nowadays, there are about eleventy gazillion pine needles falling in my yard. And those pine needles need to be raked. Otherwise, all of my grass will die and the neighbors will tie me to my basketball hoop pole and bludgeon me to death with pinecones and buckets of sealcoating because by the way I never sealed my driveway this season, either.
I tried to outsmart the whole Fall Raking Extravaganza, last year. I started out with a regular rake and about five minutes and sixty-seven sneezes and five or six really inflammatory obscenities later decided that was not working for me. In that period of time, I had successfully raked an area about a foot square. That left me… ummm… an acre minus a foot, to go.
So, being the logical person that I am, I hopped online and searched for a tool to expedite the raking process. And lo, what to my eyes should appear, but the Rake-O! And at a bargain closeout price, no less! This contraption was a big wide thing with wheels on each end and prongs inbetween, designed to be pushed, rather than pulled (less strain) and about three times as wide as a conventional rake. So I ordered myself a marvelous Rake-O. But I should’ve Known-O that the Rake-O was a piece of Crap-O. I Tried-O to make it Work-O, but my stupid Rake-O would move about a Foot-O before it got Stuck-O. Complete-O and Total-O waste of Money-O. Yo.
Next was The Wrangling With The Ancient Rider Mower, which spends most of its time in my shed housing the local insect population. This mower has been professionally fixed on three occasions and jump-started and otherwise home-tinkered on countless others. The only thing it is good for is dying. At dying, this mower is a real champ. Naturally, it was broken when I struck upon my brilliant idea to hook up the feed tube and mulching bins and just suck up my yard debris. At the time I had a relatively mechanically-inclined assistant on hand to help me, and between the two of us we were able to more or less rig the mower as a gigantic yard vacuum. A few hours later, clean-up was complete. Woot!
This year? The rider is broken again. My assistant from last year suffered a demotion (I’ll let you figure out which letters were stripped from his assistant status) and is no longer on hand to fix the infernal thing. I am watching each leaf and pine needle fall and trying very hard not to weep.
Of course, when the weepiness really threatens to overcome me, I just have a couple of puffs on my inhaler. TEE*sob*HEE!
I’ll send you a postcard fom hell
So, um, where was everybody last night? I cannot believe that my jovial party invitation didn’t yield more takers. Go figure.
As always, my true love Kira was on hand. This is why she is my true love. And while I was happy to wallow, I find that hard to do when Kira is around. She brings out the best in me. If by the best, you mean the penchant for heartlessly having fun at someone else’s expense, of course.
[We have some conversation about my daughter, and my frustration therein.]
genericmir: And I wish the ex would DIE.
genericmir: I’m going to hell.
kiwords: LOL
genericmir: LOL
genericmir: You should SEE his profile on Match.
genericmir: He sounds like Prince Charming.
kiwords: I was telling someone today, I don’t want to HURT my ex, I just wish he’d DIE. See?
genericmir: I totally get that.
[Then, a bit of discussion about the recent excitement in Kira’s world.]
genericmir: I was seriously tempted to post the ex’s entire personal ad.
genericmir: But I stopped myself.
kiwords: OH, you know we’re DYING to see it!
genericmir: He sounds like a FINE catch, lemme tell ya.
genericmir: I have never heard so much bragging and embellishment in my entire life.
kiwords: I BET! If only you could insert in his bio “PS I am a big huge LIAR.”
[multiple snarky comments from me unsuitable for a family blog deleted]
kiwords: Oh dear. His bio interspersed with your clarification…ROFL
genericmir: LOL
genericmir: Wouldn’t THAT be a treat.
genericmir: heehee
kiwords: Except posting his ad would up the chances of him finding your site.
genericmir: exactly
genericmir: So you wanna see what he wrote? Cuz I am DYING to share it with someone.
genericmir: heehee
kiwords: OH I DO I DO!
kiwords: PPPPPPLLEASE?
[Text of ad deleted, but Kira’s comments while I share it with her are priceless. Imagine these interspersed into the cutting and pasting of a looooong text.]
kiwords: Ok, I would hate him.
genericmir: heh
kiwords: It seems like he might HURT himself, what with the way he READS and IS INCREDIBLY ACTIVE, all at the same time.
kiwords: Wow.
kiwords: Oh the RESTRAINT!
kiwords: ROFL
kiwords: I cannot BELIEVE you were able to NOT POST THIS!
kiwords: Ick! Ick Ick Ick!
genericmir: Get this: Appearance best feature: Calves
genericmir: CALVES!
genericmir: I love a man with some juicy CALVES!
kiwords: Ok, I just spit on my monitor. ARE YOU HAPPY?
genericmir: BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!
genericmir: VERY!
genericmir: THis is cheering me up IMMENSELY.
kiwords: I saw this GUY the other day? And WOW, he had HOT CALVES! I was ALL WET over his CALVES!
genericmir: LOLOL
kiwords: I got the BEST CALVES OF 2004 CALENDAR the other day! WHOOOEEE!
genericmir: Oh… baby… yeah… that’s it… oh my gooooooood… your CALVES… are soooo… CALVISH!
kiwords: I just loooooove the way they…um…curve…right there from the BACK of your knee to…um your ANKLE! FLEX, BABY!
genericmir: I can’t believe I’m touching your CALVES… I can hardly breathe… is it good for yooooouuuuuu???
kiwords: And there’s this PATCH here? Where the HAIR IS RUBBED OFF! WOW, How….BRISTLY!
kiwords: ps we are going to hell.
genericmir: I notice your calves lead down to your freakishly tiny feet… oh wait, NO I DON’T… because I AM MESMERIZED BY YOUR CALVES!
kiwords: Where we shall laugh and still have better company than we did when married.
genericmir: Sounds good.
[Still later, after we compose ourselves, and make fun of his picture.]
kiwords: That entry would turn me right off. I mean, he probably doesn’t realize this, but it screams “CONTROLLING, COLD, EGO MANIAC”
Have I mentioned that I heart Kira so very, very much?
Party time!
There’s a party at my house tonight. You’re all invited! Unfortunately, it’s a theme party. Specifically, a pity party. So you all may bring cheese, and chocolate, and crises; and I will supply copious quantities of whine and bread pudding, and we will watch the season premiere of ER and take a break from wailing about our difficult lives to make snarky comments about how ER just hasn’t been the same since George Clooney left.
It promises to be quite a night. I hope you can come.
But first! I must settle the children in with the babysitter, who will entertain them for about fifteen minutes before putting them to bed and eating all of my food. She also likes to drink my Diet Coke With Lime–which is fine with me; I’m a good sharer–but it remains one of the great mysteries of the ages what she does with the cans. Maybe she eats them. They are never anywhere in view. After this happened a few times, I searched the trash and the recycling. I can’t figure it out. Perhaps she thinks her consumption of my liquid ambrosia will anger me, and so she seeks to cover it up. Oddly enough, I’d rather she drink twice the quantity of soda and leave the stupid Go-Gurt tubes alone. After she sits on Thursday nights, I invariably find myself running late in the morning and packing lunches, only to discover that there is only one tube of Go-Gurt left. My kids love Go-Gurt. For an adult or a teen? Well, it’s only two ounces of yogurt. I’d think anyone over the age of 8 could resist the lure of yogurt in a tube. Maybe I’ll just ask her to please eat two if she must indulge, because that at least leaves me with an even number.
So, I will get the kids ready for bed, kiss my consumables and my offspring good-bye, and head off to choir practice. Where many lovely and well-meaning people will ask me if I have found a job yet. Also the creepy old widowed guy will ask me far too many personal questions and I will end up insulting him right to his face in ways that he doesn’t quite get. Because I am the model of a good Christian. And while all of this is happening I will smile and assure everyone that I am just fine and the right job is out there waiting for me, and please do not worry yourselves because everything is great! Let’s sing now!
And then I shall come home and give the sitter a bunch of money to thank her for eating my food and watching my television, and then we can start the party. Woooo!
I should stop blogging now
I fear that I can blog no more, for there is no way to top the information divulged in my last post. That was the pinnacle of my comedy career (and, technically, I didn’t even have to write the funny part!). I should just stop now, because what would be a logical follow-on to that??
Nothing.
Oh, except maybe selected excerpts from his entire profile? Yeah, that might be good. Also the part where his lower age bracket for women is thirteen years younger than himself (ikky! ikky!), but still, no. I’ve had my fun at his expense.
What I will share is this: there’s a very good reason why I was content to lash out at him, yesterday, and enjoy stirring up a few laughs at his expense. Nay, as long as I’m going to do this, I’ll do it right. There is a reason, probably not even a good one. My willingness to post what I did was a direct result of huge amounts of frustration and anger.
I have often spoken of how my ex bridles at the slightest hint that he is anything less than a stellar father 110% of the time. To hear him tell it, he’s raising these kids single-handedly, rather than swooping in a couple of times a week to feed them chocolate chip pancakes for dinner. That’s annoying. But I’m used to that. What is infuriating to me is how–in crisis times when I really could use some assistance–it is always all about him and never about the kids. So, when I really need some support? I invariably find myself faced with an additional fire to put out, rather than anything akin to helpfulness.
Last night when the ex called to talk to the kids, I got on the phone with him to explain what had happened with Chickadee. I pointed out that this was the second time in less than a month that she had pretended to be sick to get out of school. I was asking for input on whom to call first, her teacher or her therapist, when he heard her wailing in the background.
Ex: Why is she crying? Is she okay?
Me: She’s fine. She’s crying because I told her we’re not going to Family Information Night, because she’s “sick” and needs to go to bed early.
Ex: Family Information Night? What’s that? Why wasn’t I informed??
Me: Ummm, it’s kind of like a fair, with stuff for the kids, and then booths for the parents about the PTA and stuff.
Ex: You should have let me know! What if I wanted to participate? You’re supposed to keep me informed!
Me: Um, Ex? It’s Wednesday night. Don’t you work late on Wednesdays? Would you have been able to come to this?
Ex: No, but that’s not the point–
Me: And do you have a deep interest in the Junior League, the Newcomer’s Club, or Scouts?
Ex: The point is that I am supposed to have the option to participate in everything!
Me: No, the point is that none of us are going and you are making a big deal out of nothing.
He then asked to speak to his children. No further input on how to handle this brewing situation with Chickadee was given.
Welcome to divorced parenting. I’ll be your host. As the custodial parent, you can expect to tend to all the crap that is part and parcel of child-rearing, be the enforcer, the day-to-day provider, and the magical solver of all problems, while your ex-spouse complains about missing face time at a school event he never would’ve given a second thought to while you were still married.
Allow me a moment to indulge my petulant inner child: It’s not fair.
Last night, I lay down in bed with Chickadee and tried to pry from her anything that might be bothering her. I told her I love her, over and over (she needs so much reassurance these days), but that it’s not okay to pretend to be sick to get out of school. I told her she can tell me anything but we have to be truthful with one another to get problems fixed. Today, I play phone tag with the teacher and the therapist. I chat with a friend who also has a high-maintenance child and compare notes. The teacher calls and has no idea what the problem might be, but for not the first time I wonder if this very old-school teacher is a good match for my very complicated daughter. My heart is heavy with the knowledge that my child is crying out for help that I don’t know how to give.
Last night, the ex got off the phone with me and called his mother to complain about me. Can you believe how she just leaves me out of these things, he probably said. Who does she think she is! I’m a very involved father! This morning, he went to work with donuts on his mind. Tra la la.
It’s not fair.
Frightening would be an understatement
So I was chatting with my dear Jilbur this fine evening, and she asked me for my zip code. I gave it, along with a snarky comment about how she must be sending me a sympathy card (it’s been that kind of a day). Nope, no card. What she offered, instead, was a link to Match.com profiles for available men in my area.
Now that, dear readers, would’ve been scary enough. Some of those pictures reminded me that I am indeed a stranger in a strange land. Heh. But the ultimate horror was not to present itself until later, as I continued to page through with a mixture of fear and fascination.
I wondered; how can you really know someone from the information they choose to present to you on a dating website? These men could be animals. They could be killers, rapists, WWF fans, taxidermists! How would you know? How would it be possible for someone like me–a skeptic, at best; a pessimist, at worst–to bridge the gap of disbelief and allow that not only are there good, available men out there, but they are advertising themselves this way? Perhaps I am being a snob, I told myself. Perhaps I should at least allow for the possibility.
Whatever infinitesimal chance at open-mindedness I’d had was erased by a single profile. The gentleman in question sounded fabulous. Great education, varied interests, funny, and a father to boot (waxing smitten on his kids, no less). He claimed to love a multitude of romantic activities that I haven’t had the pleasure of since long before my marriage. He sounded to good to be true, really. Because he is.
Yes, the ex has a profile on Match. Given his penchant for science fiction, I guess the majesty and extent of his truth-bending shouldn’t surprise me. The clincher? In the same sentence where he claims to be a very devoted father, he gets the kids’ ages wrong.
P.S. Adding a clarification: I neglected to share that a couple of weeks ago the ex claimed that he and the MOB have decided to “just be friends for now,” which I of course took to mean she dumped him. But I was sitting on this info because I wasn’t sure it was true. According to Match he’s been active in the last day, so I guess she’s history.
Meanest. Mama. EVER!
Ways to not impress me with your supposed illness: talk non-stop in a low, gravelly voice to demonstrate how ill you are; devour the contents of your lunch bag and ask for more; ask to go outside to play; complain about staying inside; complain about not getting to watch television; later torment your little brother about what little TV you did get to watch in his absence; insist that you feel fine now in spite of how tragically afflicted you were just minutes ago; pitch a screaming hissy fit when you find out that no, we will not be attending “Family Fun Night” tonight on account of–oh, that’s right!–you’re sick.
Things that will happen to you when you’ve executed all of the above and more: television will be taken away; you will complete all work sent home by your teacher plus some extra worksheets I just happen to have; you will find a way to make up to your brother that you’ve been so pissy (writing “OUTSTANDING” on his latest artwork was a clever solution, I’ll grant you that); I will loudly inform our friends on the phone that no, we won’t be there tonight, because you are far too sick to go out, but please enjoy the festivities without us; you will have the first shower and a bland dinner and go to bed early.
Any suggestions on how to delicately word a note to the school letting them know that I’d prefer not to be called unless there is delirium or vomit?
Maybe it’s a big magnetic field… of suckiness
This day is shaping up just swimmingly, lemme tell ya. It’s 11:15 and I haven’t even had a shower yet. It’s that kind of day.
I woke up with a sore throat. No biggie. Just the start of a cold, most likely. But it didn’t put me in the most stellar of moods, I suppose you could say. So the fact that the children were rather, uhhhhh, high-spirited, let’s say, this morning, was perhaps not fully appreciated by my cranky self. Nevertheless, they were washed and dressed and fed and ushered out the door at the appropriate time. I packed lovely lunches that no one will eat, and even wrote Chickadee a touching note on her lunch napkin (making use of that age-old term of endearment, “Mrs. Grumpy Gills”).
I returned home fully intending to take a shower, first thing. But I should probably check my email first… and maybe catch up on blogs… and golly I am really tired and yucky-feeling, maybe I’ll just lie down for a little bit.
There are very few perks to being unemployed. Freedom to take a nap when you feel crappy is one of them.
Nestled snugly in bed, dozing, I glared at the phone when it rang. Have I mentioned my deep and enduring love for Caller ID? I heart my Caller ID. My true love Caller ID let me know that this was a lady from church calling, most likely about the bible study group I’d missed last week but that was meeting again today. I was not in the mood for a guilt trip or even exchanging pleasantries, so Caller ID and I decided to let the machine pick up. Problem solved.
Only, things did not go according to plan. Ordinarily my answering machine treats callers to my most cheerful self saying something along the lines of, “Hello! You have reached 555-1212! And this is NOT the Department of Motor Vehicles! HAHA! But if you’re calling for us and not the DMV, leave us a message and we’ll call you back! Tralala! Bye!!” I’m blessed with the number most often misdialed when folks are trying to reach the local DMV, so it’s not as bizarre as it might seem, although I promise it is at least twice as chirpy and annoying as it reads.
So, the phone rang and rang and then I heard the click as the machine picked up, and instead of transmitting my beautifully-crafted message of joy and love and suburban wit, the greeting sounded like this:
“… *clickclickclickSNERK* … JSHDG PSSSSSSSSSSSK … KKKKRRRRWWWWWWWWW … GLSJGLK BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!”
For some inexplicable reason, my caller hung up without leaving a message. Perhaps because she suspected Satan was now inhabiting my answering machine. It’s hard to know.
This was perplexing, sure, but I was still only about half-awake and I thought to myself, “Perhaps my darling children have been fooling around with the machine and accidentally recorded a new message. How charming.” And I was all set to go back to drooling on my pillow when the phone rang again. Caller ID identified the caller as “Smallville, Town of.”
One of my friends teaches at the high school, and when she calls me from school it comes up as “Smallville, Town of,” but this was the middle of the morning and she never calls me then. Between the second and third rings my feeble brain managed to piece together that if the high school comes up that way, there’s an excellent chance that all of our schools do, too. Like, perhaps, including the elementary school?
“Hello, Mrs. Chickadee’s Mom? This is the nurse at Small School. I have Chickadee here in my office, and she’s complaining of a sore throat. She has a very low fever, 99.2, which is sort of borderline.”
I adore my children, you know. It’s not that I’m insensitive to them in times of sickness. But my daughter? Is a bit of a hypochondriac. She’d been fine this morning at breakfast. Trying not to sound too much like a horrible parent, I asked the nurse if she could give her some tylenol and send her back to class. She agreed that that would be fine, she’d administer the tylenol and call me back if Chickadee wasn’t feeling any better. I thanked her and hung up.
Hmmm. Tylenol sounded like a good idea. I took some, myself, and went downstairs to have a look at my answering machine. I replayed my greeting and this time it sounded very much like someone had extracted the digital chip, put it in the blender with a few minor demons, and cranked it up to “ice crush.” Weird. Just for kicks, I hit “PLAY” to listen to my saved messages:
“SJLHDG KKKKK … KILLKILLKILL … PSSSSSSSS … QQQPPPPPEEEE … EEEEEEEEEE”
That first message was pretty old, but I really don’t remember anybody leaving that as an important missive. Hmmm. The chip is scrambled? I don’t know. Great. This is just what I need. What I want most in the world right now is to have to buy a new answering machine. Fabulous! Yay! Perhaps I could also stick something sharp in my eye so that I can make this feeling last!
What I need is some caffeine. A nice hot cup of tea will make me feel better. But so would lying back down. And being the woman of action that I am, I opt to head back to bed… where the phone wakes me about .035 seconds after I fall asleep. Only this time, my answering machine–set on tollsaver mode, also known as “if there’s already a message, pick up immediately”–picks up before I can get to the phone, spews its garbled confusion, and the caller hangs up. All before the Caller ID even has time to identify who it was. But lucky for me, then my cell phone starts to ring! So I get to run down the stairs!
“This is the nurse again. Something is wrong with your phone, I think. Anyway, Chickadee isn’t feeling any better. Could you please come pick her up?”
Out I go to pick up my dying swan (who seems fine, if a little pale), and it occurs to me on the drive back that on the off chance that anyone tries to call me about a job, they are not going to be able to leave me a message. I start to hyperventilate. We arrive home to… the blinking “new message” light on the machine. Oh dear lord, no.
“BEEEEEEEEP. Hi, Mir? I think there’s something wrong with your outgoing message. Anyway, hope you can join us for bible study today!”
So, apparently some sort of cosmic event scrambled all the existing messages on my machine, but now it’s fine. Interesting. I’m sure I’ll want to spend some more time thinking about it, but for right now, who wants a popsicle?