Yesterday I met with two lovely clients, and of course after the meeting I blabbered on about my book. This is a problem I’m battling. Even when I can sense people feigning interest just to be polite, there I go, prattling on and on and segueing clumsily into our latest remodeling project and the horsehair we found in our plaster and my fear that we’ll never sell our house because it’s not up to code. It’s so not up to code it’s probably included in the “if you build a house like this you're a complete idiot” chapter of at least three architectural textbooks. Yes, this is a true story.
Oh, the humanity.
The good news is that my awkward diarrhea of the mouth will prevent me from ever running for office. (Hmmm… “awkward diarrhea.” Can’t wait to see what kind of Google hits I get now!)
After I returned home I was forced to hide under my computer desk because guess who came to the door? That’s right, people distributing religious literature! This time it was the Baptists. Once they’d deduced that either nobody was home or the lady of the house was hiding under some furniture like the coward that she is, they progressed down the street and entered into a lengthy conversation with a neighbor who was outside making a racket with a leaf blower. Poor guy, he never heard them coming.
Anyway, they stood outside chatting for probably half an hour. What do Everyday Joes and Janes talk to the roaming Bible people about? Do they split hairs over different interpretations of scripture? Are they discussing how evil Harry Potter is? Are they talking about the price of tea in China? (Well, maybe if said tea was sold by godless Communists.)
An hour later, the refrigerator repairman arrived. Not unexpectedly. Of course he was invited, because our fridge is busily planning a trip to the Great Appliance Graveyard Around the Bend. “Nice day,” I remarked (oh, the wit!), trying to make small talk while he unpacked some tools. “I know. I shoulda called in,” was his reply. After more repairman banter he studied the photos on my fridge and pointed to a holiday photo of my friend and her husband. “This the guy?” he asked. Meaning, ‘is this your husband?’ Nevermind the fact that I look nothing like the woman in the photo. Nevermind the creepy factor. Here's the thing: he was pointing to a Seasons Greetings! photo card. “Not unless I send myself a holiday photo card OF myself, and then tape it to the fridge,” is what I should have said. “Um, no,” is what I actually said, my wit exceeding—no, smashing—all limits heretofore restraining it.
And then he opened the freezer. “Hey! That’s where I store my vodka, too!”
True story, folks.
Let me leave you with this headline from Poland. Please click. You won’t be sorry.