BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Long about the time the O-spring made her debut in this world – technically, about 4 months prior if you want to be exact – E K and I moved. It was a short move in some ways, long in others. You see, we didn’t exactly change homes, just bedrooms.

We live in a modest house, as I’ve said before. It’s around 100 years old, but it isn’t going to be found on any historic registries anywhere. Nothing special happened here, at least not that we are aware. I’m sure something special happened for the folks who lived here at different times, but nothing earth shattering enough to be recorded in the history books.

Anyway, since it’s relatively small, her supreme evilness and I decided that we would move out of the large bedroom on the main floor, and relocate to the smaller bedroom on the second half-story of the house. Why? Because babies take up a lot of space, believe it or not. They come in a small package, yes, but they require an inordinate amount of support equipment. Cribs, changing tables, mobiles, little Dalek looking things that are in reality bizarre machines that take full diapers and turn them into enormous, twisty, poop sausages. Let me tell you, I thought the thing was ridiculous right up until we switched from cloth diapers to disposables. It was worth its weight in gold when it came to disposal of hazardous waste, as long as your “poo sausage casing” cartridge didn’t run out. Trust me, that was cause for panic…

But, enough about the ka-ka…

The thing is, many years have rushed by, disappearing into the distance and making us wonder just where the hell they went. E K and I are getting older… Okay… I’m getting older. Apparently E K has the Dick Clark gene or something. Either way, the O-spring has advanced a few years as well, so we no longer have to worry about her toddling head first down the stairs or anything scary like that. We have other worries instead, but that’s another blog.

What I’m trying to say here is that we are swapping bedrooms again. The Evil One and I are moving back to the main floor – closer to the bathroom, if you know what I mean. And, the spring is going to have a “tween pad,” up and away from the “grups”… Or so she thinks – my office is still right across the landing from the upstairs bedroom and it’s not moving.

I know, I know, get to the point…

Since it has been better than a decade since any work was done to the rooms, we’re in the midst of updating a few things, and taking care of some of the issues one will have with an aging house. To that end, just the other day we were installing some new quarter-round, and other trim in the upstairs space where we had built some recessed shelves some time ago.

These days, one of the problems with trim and baseboards is that a lot of it is made out of plastic. This is okay if you have a nail gun. If you have a hammer, however, it presents a problem. Why? Because you generally have to hit a nail two or three times to drive it in, and when you do, all of the vibrations and impacts shatter the plastic. And so, this is what I dealt with on a very hot day. Suffice it to say, I ended up screaming a good number of expletives. Fortunately, it was just the cats and me in the house at the time.

Fast forward a few days. I had been forced to abandon the project temporarily since I had to fly off to a faraway land and be that author type guy for a bit. Upon my return, I was sitting in the office one evening – remember the office right across from the bedroom?

Well, anyway, E K had taken up the task of installing the rest of the quarter round. As I answered email I listened. From the other room I heard:

tap… tap… TAP… TAP! Clatter! Grumble Grumble… Sigh…

Saw Saw Saw…

tap… tap… TAP… TAP! Clatter! Grumble Grumble… Sigh…

Saw Saw Saw…

tap… tap… TAP… TAP! Clatter! Grumble Grumble… Sigh…

Saw… Saw… Saw… tap… tap… TAP… TAP! Clatter! DAMMIT!

I chuckled, which probably wasn’t a good idea given that I was chuckling at The Evil Redhead herself, then I said, “Now you sound like I did the other day.”

Without missing a beat, the O-spring chirped, “But I bet you used the word that starts with F.”

Kids. You just can’t fool ’em, can you?

More to come…

Murv

I raced up the stairs, trying my damnedest not to kill myself in the process. You see, our house is old. VERY old. What’s more, the basement stairs were apparently cut and assembled by a rag-tag group of chimpanzees that were somewhere in the middle of a 30 day beer binge – I know this because I found a few of the “church key” topped cans in the wall when we remodeled and tore out the plaster and lath. The other reason I know this is because one stair might have a 7 1/2 inch rise with a 10 inch tread, but the next will have a 10 inch rise with a 7 inch tread. Of course, the one that follows usually has a 4 inch rise and a 12 inch tread, but I think you get the idea. The thing of it is, there’s no discernible pattern, even where muscle memory is concerned. Therefore, much killing of oneself occurs on these stairs, especially when you are in a hurry.

I know, I should probably just rip them out and replace them, like I did with their fraternal twins that led upstairs to the half story. But, that’s beside the point. This blog is actually about Dorothy Morrison and telephones.

Dorothy and cell phones, to be exact…

You see, Dorothy Morrison is a friend of mine. In fact, she is one of my best friends in the whole world. For those of you who might not know just who Dorothy is click on her name and follow the link. It will take you to her website. She’s a fantastic author and we often tour together. We are so much like brother and sister that we had to have been siblings in a previous life. It’s that simple.

So, anyway, there I was, trying hard not to kill myself as I bounded up the stairs from the basement. It was Christmas Day. Just this past Christmas Day 2009, as a matter of fact. Presents had been opened, breakfast had been consumed, showers had been had, and I had finished all of the cooking and meal prep work. We were gathering things together so we could load up and head out to visit with E Kay’s family. I was down in the basement – also known as E Kay’s Dungeon and Playroom – so that I could snag a box or two in order to make the packing up a bit easier. I had already had to skirt my way around the rack, the Iron Maiden, and all of E Kay’s other “toys” without injuring myself, and so far I had been doing fine.

Then I heard it. My cell phone, which was upstairs on the dining room table, began to belt out a jazzy show tune sort of ring. Only one person in my phone book was assigned this particular melange of electronic chirps – Dorothy.

Now, one would imagine that it would be just as easy to safely negotiate the stairs and return the call if missed. But, I knew better. I knew that Dorothy and her husband were on vacation, therefore in all likelihood she was calling me from her cell phone.

“Okay… So what?” you ask.

Well, I’ll tell you. Better yet, allow me to illustrate by finishing the story.

… The boxes I had been carrying flew out of my hands, as they were all but forgotten. I stumbled up the stairs at a frantic pace, losing a shoe and banging my shin on the 12 inch riser because I had miscalculated after taking the two 4 inch risers at once. The cats scattered in front of me – after all, wouldn’t you too if a fat guy was falling up the stairs at you?

My head bounced off the door frame as I fell through the opening, then rolled across the floor, came up into a dead run… Well, a limping dead run… E K was yelling from our bedroom upstairs, wanting to know why she was hearing a show tune, the offspring was surveying her bounty yet again, and the clock was ticking. I rounded the corner from the hallway and dove for the dining room table, snagging my phone as I crashed through the chairs and ended in a crumpled heap against the wall.

“Hello? Hello?” I said, speaking into the now unfolded cell between labored breaths. But alas, no one was there. Though I knew it was a longshot – and I do mean longshot – I pressed the button to return the missed call, which the tiny LCD screen was telling me had, in fact, come from Dorothy. Moreover, it told me it had come from Dorothy’s cell.

The tiny speaker on my LG warbled twice then clicked. The click, as I had fully expected, was followed by a voice mail prompt.

You see, here’s the thing… Dorothy suffers from CPFCS (Cell Phone Flash Calling Syndrome). She calls you, leaves a message, then before the last syllable has even finished echoing, she switches off her cell phone. Yes, just like a criminal on the run who fears being tracked by a cell phone signal, she shuts the thing down. I’m not absolutely certain, but I think she might even take the battery out of the damn thing.

I have attempted interventions in the past, gathering together friends and other authors who know Dorothy, but we have never had any success. No matter how hard we try, she still calls, leaves a message, then turns off her phone so that you can’t reach her. We even tried to bring her husband in on the intervention once, but Mark has been living under the same roof with her for so long that he has become jaded to this behavior.

When we told him what we were planning and why, he simply responded, “You’ll have that.”

Unable to reach Dorothy, I listened to the voice mail. As I suspected it would be, she was calling to wish us a Merry Christmas. Of course, I couldn’t return the greeting because she had turned off her phone. For that very same reason I also couldn’t call her horrible and terrible names for relaxing in Key West while I was preparing to load a vehicle in snow and sub-freezing temperatures.

Still, even though she couldn’t hear me, I called her names anyway. All in good fun, of course.

I mean, we’re talking about Dorothy Morrison here…

You’ll have that.

More to come…

Murv