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I have a bathroom with a very special feature. Apparently, there is some kind of sensor that reaches out, connects with any random individual who has my phone number, and prods them to call me. Any time. Day or night. The two biggest offenders are KC and my mother, and while I am not blaming them for their sixth sense or lack thereof, I can blame them for acting like I took off to Vegas with the lawn boy if I happen to not answer my phone because I am reading the Playboy Advisor on the hopper.
"Where were you! I tried to call! There was no answer on the cell or at the office or at the house! Is everything okay? I had to tell you immediately that I decided we need to do something a month from now and it was urgent that I call!"
Dear Freakpeople from the planet Intrusive: Everything is fine! I just had McDonald's for lunch and this month's interview is with Jamie Foxx! Leah is still at school and thus I have five minutes to do exactly as I please! So leave me to it, for the love of god!
It used to be that the calls were mostly confined to normal hours. But then I had a baby and then the baby grew up and went to school and Mom decided that meant I was in that exclusive club of Women Who Are Up At Ungodly Hours and has taken to calling me before 7, some days. Most of the time I know it is her, and I am even mostly over the initial "Oh my god, who's dead?" reaction and just wonder what happened to pass through her mind that she felt the need to call RIGHT NOW, but in the morning it is always something. Either I am in the shower or in the bathroom or fighting with Leah about shoes and her timing is always such that the phone rings just as I am half out of my robe with the kettle whistling, Leah falling off the couch, and bowls of milk and cereal dregs spilling everywhere. And while Mom is on the phone because she just remembered that Boscov's is having a sale, KC calls in because he wants to read me all the CNN headlines and has a hissy because I am not answering the call waiting and then he calls my cell and the office and thinks that maybe I fell and cracked open my head and that Leah is all by herself trying to dial 911, being scarred for life and building up years of therapy bills.
He makes fun of me for being a worrywart but he is one of those secret worrywarts who react by being mean about it. He leaves the rudest voicemail messages if I am not there telling him I am still breathing. So I retaliate by sending ALL CAPS EMAILS CALLING HIM AN IGNORANT FUCKWAD and then he calls and says "What's the matter with you today?" and then I hang up on him and drive to McDonald's for lunch because I have such a headache that only a fountain Coke will help.
Then he calls while I am in the bathroom after said lunch and the arrival of the new Sports Illustrated, and the cycle begins anew.
I think American playwrights should do more family sagas centered around a bathroom. It's a veritable goldmine of drama. Though perhaps not so much scenery-chewing. Very unhygienic.