Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Still Lurking About

Beloved Spouse and Precocious Daughter are with me in my office right now.

Well, kind of.

PDaughter is here with her feet up on my desk and her eyes glued to her iPod Touch. I tried to take a picture of her, but even though I told her I would blur out her face, she punched me in the stomach and took my camera. Perhaps I exaggerate.

That's what you get when you won't let me post an actual picture of you, kid.
PDaughter has informed me she does not look like the above image. But how do you know? Exactly.

Anyway, BelSpouse is roaming. He's got ants in his pants.

Sure, I could have illustrated the metaphor
with any number of images.
I chose this one.
The reason my little family is here with me is that BelSpouse's car is in the shop. He'll be able to pick it up shortly, but for right now he's carless. So we met at the shop, then went to lunch and then came back to my office to wait.

I'm waiting. PDaughter is waiting. BelSpouse is freaking out. He cannot sit still for any length of time. So far he's visited the restroom, the mailroom, the cafe, the elevators, the smoking area outside (he doesn't smoke), and the liquor store next door. He has a bit of an energy management problem.

For the last time, dear, I'm not threatening you.
Now, it's not as if the man never sits still. I've seen him watch hours and hours of history documentaries, nearly motionless. Possibly he was catatonic. He will also read books for long stretches of time...these are books about history, so the catatonic thing might still be in play. And video games. Holy crap, BelSpouse will sit and play a video game until the disc itself begs for surcease from spinning in its console for five damn minutes.

That's poetry, bitch.
But put BelSpouse in a situation where he's expected to cool his heels for any period of time, and he goes a little nuts. Waiting is not his forte. Not his long suit. Not in his vocabulary.

About to go apeshit.
As I write this, he's back from his travels around my office building and is drumming his fingers on my desk. Drumming...drumming...drumming...playing with my business cards...drumming...drumming...

Oh, wait, I think he's going to pace now.

Dear GM dealership:

Please finish fixing my husband's car soon before somebody dies.


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