So happy you could attend my little soiree. Kiss Kiss.
I’m having wine. Would you care for some, or perhaps something a bit stronger? Canape? How have you been? How’s your mother?
Let me tell you about my day:
BigB has a tradition I like to call, “Inviting Strangers Into Our Home”.
Inevitably, he invites them to come on Saturday mornings. To be fair, he usually gives me fair warning. To be honest the information usually goes in one ear, executes a leisurely figure 8 while attempting to bypass all the other crap floating around in there, and then tumbles out the other ear, starts walking fast, and glances back fearfully from time to time. Pertinent information does not seem to fare well in my brain. This means that when the stranger in question arrives on Saturday morning to fix the plumbing, or clean the furnace, or sweep the chimney, I am usually still in my pajamas, bed head still intact, and not in a pleasant mood, having watched multiple episodes of Max and Ruby long before I should even be awake (in my opinion, not littleb’s). This would be all well and good except for the fact that BigB manages to never be home when the stranger arrives, as another of his traditions is scheduling his haircuts to take place in the hour before appointed stranger arrivals. He always assures me he SHOULD be back. He never is. This is a problem for two reasons:
1.) Strangers in my home make me ill at ease unless I am drinking wine, which (thankfully) I am usually not on Saturday mornings. If BigB scheduled Strangers at 6 PM rather than 9 AM, things might go a little more smoothly.
CHICKEN AT 9 AM:
Stranger: Hello, Ma’am, I’m here to fix the fuse box.
Me: What the fuck is a fuse box?
Stranger: Um, it’s probably right over here, I’ll just have a look, a’right?
Me: Whatever. Asshole.
CHICKEN AT 6 PM:
Me: Well, Hi there, nice tool box, and who might you be?
Stranger: Umm, I’m Pete. I’m here to fix a fuse box?
Me: Really? I didn’t know we had a fuse box. WTF is a fuse box and why do we have one?
Me: Would you like a drink? I have beer. You look like a beer drinker. How about a beer? BigB will be here any minute.
Me: Hey that really is a nice tool box. I have one, you want to see it? It’s green. I have a hammer and two screw things. One for plus signs and one for minus signs.
Me: Did you know this house is haunted? S’true. Let me get you that beer and I’ll tell you why we have electrical problems. Could you watch him for minute? (peeling littleb off my leg).
littleb: Wanna see my peanut? (pet name for penis)
2.) I do not talk “home maintenance” and this normally creates a severe language barrier.
Stranger: Hello Ma’am. I’m here to check your drainage system. BigB thinks you may need to replace your downspout elbows?
Me: (intuiting that water is involved) Right…Well, the faucet is right over there. There’s another one upstairs. My elbows are fine, though. Not sure what that’s all about. You sure he didn’t say “tennis bracelet”?
That leads me to today. Today’s appointment was with the electrician. And I was well aware of it because BigB insisted we clean the upstairs last night as the electrician would need to access some outlets there and the upstairs resembled a volcanic episode, assuming the volcano in question was spewing laundry, outgrown clothing, wet towels, scummy tubby toys, and general debris.
Due to frantic cleaning, which prompted the Teenager Who Lives in the Basement to ask, “So what’s with this Electrician? Is he super important or something?”, and which caused BigB to stop and scratch his head for a moment because….damn good question…Friday night was spent in a frenzy of cleaning rather than the frenzy of blogging and wine drinking I prefer.
Saturday morning arrived and the coop was ready to meet the Very Important Electrician.
But still, there was BigB’s hair to consider.
Sure enough, BigB was out maintaining his look, and the electrician was early. And I was in the shower. Teenager Who Lives In the Basement yelled upstairs “Chicken, the ‘guy’ is here”, and I yelled back “Where is BigB?” and he yelled back “Not Here” and I yelled “#$%#%) Asshole *&^%$#”.
So instead of the pajama and bedhead look, today I got to present the “wet hair, under-dressed, wrapped in a towel, and no makeup” look, which incredibly enhances my mid-morning surly look, don’t you agree?
Whatever. I am over it now. I can watch TV in the living room and there is light in my closet for the first time in a year. Party at my place tonight. Bring your plumber. My toilet is running and I’d just as soon deal with it over wine.
Thank you so much for coming and for the lovely hostess gift. Click on the Chicken crossing the road before you leave and double your fun.