How can that be? When we come home from work every night, both The Senator and his trusty companion Bonita Banana are waiting on pins and needles for us to enter the house from the garage door. We’re like the most exciting thing ever. Turns out there is an appointed time for that most-exciting-thing-ever to happen, and it is not in the middle of the day when the house belongs to the cats. Territorial beasts.
All day with the glaring at me when I bounded down the stairs for a Diet Coke. All day with the looks that question my existence. All day with the permeating feeling that I am not wanted. All day.
And the quiet. I cannot work with music, so it has been quiet all day. Just me and the air conditioning and the flushing toilet from time to time. It is silly quiet.
No lawn mowing today or weed wacking on Werewolf Lane. Just simple, hot, blaring, you-should-not-be-here-it-is-cat-time quiet. I miss my coworkers. Holy crap! It’s true. I miss the silly stories over the cube wall about what baby vomited on whom or who took their first step or which baby made the cutest sound you just can't stand it. I even miss Greg Neal! I do! I miss Greg Neal reading the news out loud all day. I have no idea what’s going on in the world today, and if a tornado hits—there is no one to warn me. I know, I know, I should surf the net more, but I’ve always had Greg Neal. Miracles will never cease. Greg Neal, deliver me from ignorant bliss!
I worked from home today because it was my turn. Mr. Husband had already worked from home twice while we wait on the builder and the plumber and the magic-man-magician to come and fix our dying master bath shower. Three or maybe four weekends ago (it was ages ago), we noticed bright orange moss and a tiny mushroom
growing out of the baseboard on the bathroom wall between the super shower with five spigots and Mr. Husband’s crapper. After living together in a one-bathroom apartment for two and a half years, Mr. Husband has his own bathroom. I will not go in there unless I have to. The man is regular. He is crazy regular—and good for him! But no more of living with that for me. No way. Keep my olfactory factories making roses. So, anyhow, there was a mushroom growing in our bathroom and I didn’t take a photo! I screamed and Mr. Husband ran to the rescue. It’s been a bathroom chaos-mystery ever since. They tear up one part and retile. Tear and retile again. Water still leaks. Now we are to test again tomorrow morning. I hope they fixed it because staying home is for those who can. It’s simply boring here. Metaphorical fires happen all the time at work. I guess I miss the heat.
And Mr. Husband. Mr. Husband is a wall away at all times while at work. I can hear him sneeze, if he sneezes. If he’s in a meeting and discussing big Research & Development things (R&D), then I get to hear waves of what might be words from his side of the office. I can hear him. Sometimes.
And I can smell him, if I put my mind and nose to it. I am not alone. Today, I was alone and put up for sale or trade by the cats. Suck. I miss Mr. Husband. He’ll be home soon, and we’ll have our daily discussion, but most days we live each others’ day with some differences. We don’t do the same thing at all, but we are nearby and can check in with each other face-to-face whenever throughout the day. Open Access. Mr. Husband came home for lunch today, and I think we had the most romantic lunch date possible with the plumber pounding away at our shower tile in the background. We laughed and ate pizza and stared at each other as if we hadn’t seen each other for years.
It was like an airport pick-up lunch. Totally. And then he left. He was gone and the cats were still glaring at me, staring down at their little-furry-imaginary-wristwatches and shaking their heads, saying, “It’s not 5:00. Why are you here?” I miss my cube.
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