I have this theory that there's an invisible force field in my cube created by the contact of ass-to-chair. This force field prevents the phone from ringing. I love this power, though I have no control over it, and I suspect I'm not alone in possessing it. The corollary is, of course, as soon as I'm more than 20 feet away from the 6x6 cell cube, the damn phone is going to ring.
Curiously, at home that force field is maintained by my ass never making contact with the toilet seat. Which contact stimulates not only the phone, but the front door. I'm a skeptic so I don't think this is The Universe, God or Aliens. I think it's electrical...but that's foolishness for another post.
So last night, I settle with a sigh on the throne not long before midnight. I am half-undressed for bed. I hear a car and footsteps on the porch. And then, the firm, insistent knock. Fuck me.
Since we have our share of neighborhood crazies with occasional lapses in what constitutes good manners, I shout out, "Who is it?" (Those among you who might accuse me of yelling like a fishwife from inside the house should note that I didn't holler, "Who the fuck is knocking on my door at this hour?")
Which was fortunate restraint on my part because the answer came back, "[unintelligible...unintelligible] Houston Police."
Oh. So I call out once more (a little less belligerently), "just a moment," throw on a shirt and go to the door. And there are two cops on my porch.
"Ma'am, did someone call the police from this residence?" (Not the time to discuss the issue of calling me ma'am, I silently note.)A monkey? No, even my practical joking friends wouldn't risk possible fines for filing a false report. This was just the luck of the draw. I sent the officers away with no more information than they had before interrupting my reverie.
"No, not from here."
"We got a call about a monkey loose on this street and they gave your address."
So far, no monkey sightings from us...we will be on the lookout, however.
Did I mention that two FBI agents stopped by in the aftermath of Hurricane Ike? Looking for a coworker who shared St. Barbara's name. FBI. Couldn't find the correct address of their own people, godhelpus.
If I were paranoid, I'd be all high anxiety now. But I'm not. It's all electrical.
4 comments:
That's enough to drive someone bananas.
Joe thought bubble: "HAHAHAHA! My evil plan to drive Enita bonkers is well on its way. I must now assemble my monkey army for the next step."
XO
G
What do you call it when the phone call comes first, followed by the urgent need to sit on the throne?
What do you call it when the phone call comes first, followed by the urgent need to sit on the throne?
Beloved Anonymous, so glad you asked. It's called Telephonic Elimination Stimulation Syndrome. Surprisingly, not at all uncommon—as evidenced by the universally recognized sound of hand-over-receiver-muted flushing.
This is not to be confused with Conversational Elimination Stimulation Syndrome, a much more insidious disorder which symptoms are manifest in the compulsion to talk to someone in the closed stall next to you.
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