magic asses and midnight monkies

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.)
"No, not from here."
"We got a call about a monkey loose on this street and they gave your address."

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.

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.

and on the 15th day, they rested

Lean in to your monitor. Can you smell it? It's the powerful perfume of electricity I'm emitting. That's right, faithful readers, there's a light. Over at the Epiphenita/St. Barbara house.

Off the grid for over fourteen days. An odd sabbatical from the usual. Educational, too. But all I can think of right now is being in my own bed while the air conditioner lulls me to sleep.

day 13 redux

I don't know whether I'm going to burst into tears or burst into flames.

(As if. When given a choice, my choice is combustion.)

day 13

This is not a catastrophe, it's just a huge inconvenience.

A huge, cranky-making inconvenience. Spent half the night in the truck last night. The trade-off is air conditioning and uncomfortable surfaces OR comfortable bed and sticky heat. Until 2 am, when we schlepped inside for a few hours of sleeping abed in reasonable temperatures.

A half-million Houstonians and I are fucking tired.

I'm not going to use sleep deprivation and temperature torture as license to be a raging lunatic. But, tranquility in the face of sleepiness is not my superpower.

I'm signing off now because I can't stand to hear myself talk about electricity, hurricanes or sleep for one more minute.