A Home or a Train Station

Does Wednesday night television really suck? I ask as I wouldn’t know. I don’t have time, nor inclination to indulge in such a pastime. I couldn’t though help noticing that my phone displayed more messages on Wednesday evening than a railroad station during the rush hour. Hence my TV question.

I was on the phone with the Cowboy, who was not impressed with the way New Jersey handled the latest floods, and was pining for his beloved Arizona. As I was wishing him bonne voyage to Taiwan and good luck in clinching the deal, the Pilot called. I never understood the point of putting someone on hold to tell another person to hold on while rushing to finish the conversation with the person who was put on hold first. So, I never do it. Unless you are an ER surgeon on call, rather than impose the stress of juggling all those people holding and waiting, let them leave a message.

And that’s what The Pilot did. Left me a message that he had made it with his three offspring to Orlando for the vacation and was calling to see what I was up to. I was returning his call when the Architect left a message. Back from his Caribbean family vacation, he was following up on the two e-mails he had sent me since his return.

Making a mental note to call back, I jumped on the bed with all three of my boys taking turns in reading, or rather acting Shel Silverstein’s poems. Judging by the laughter that rocked the room, I think I was pretty good at “Oh, I’m being eaten by a boa constrictor.” When I am having fun with my boys, I don’t care if it were her British Majesty, whose humble subject I am, phoning me. She would have to leave a message with all the other mere mortals.

That particular avenue of communication was the only one open to the Lawyer when he dialed my number. I met him at the South African wine tasting recently. He was wondering in his message when he could take me out to dinner. I’ll need to check my calendar. It seems to be getting busy.

‘Lekker!’