Buttons Get Pushed

Yesterday, while not a terrible day, seemed determined to find out how many of my buttons it could push.

As my morning was winding down, I received a text message from my wife. Since that day a couple of months ago when I received a text that simply said “Come take me to the ER”, I’ve tended to have palpitations everytime I hear the Jetson’s doorbell, which is the signal for a wifely text. Yesterday’s text was only slightly different – this time, her sugars had crashed, she was unable to drive, and I needed to come pick her up and bring her home to rest.

So I leave work a little early and help her to the car, joking that a) when she stumbles, she must have a teenage urge to pull me down and make out, and b) it’s pretty sad when you’re relying on a cripple for support. We pick up lunch and head home. She has some cheese and an apple turnover, trying to get her sugars up, and finally goes to sleep.

I attempt to follow suit, as it is siesta time – see earlier post – and the doorbell rings after a meager five minutes of sleep.

I have gone on at length about how I am going to, in a fit of rage, some day pull down the doorbell and reduce it to its component atoms with a ballpeen hammer. Instead I limped downstairs, since my son had already answered the door, there was no possibility of pretending no one was home. Besides, I didn’t want them ringing the doorbell again and disturbing my wife.

It was not missionaries, but my other least favorite visitor, a teenage waif selling overpriced services/magazine subscriptions door to door. First of all, given that I have difficulties sleeping, if you wake me up, it is best for your well-being if someone is dead, injured, or the house is on fire. None of these were the case. I told her she had awakened me. She seemed surprised, as apparently fat men wearing nothing but a T-shirt and boxers were apparently de rigeur in her world. No, I’m sorry, I am currently underemployed and not able to afford your wares, even if I were interested. I am going back to bed now, goodbye. No, it would not help if you spoke to the lady of the house, goodbye. No, you coming by later to speak to her would not help, did I mention goodbye? At this point she attempted to  bully her way into the house and I flipped on the Full Asshole Mode and finally got rid of her.

I feel terrible after switching on Full Asshole Mode, but the last time I attempted to gently inform a similar door to door type of the uselessness of continuing his spiel, he stood in my front yard and screamed curses at me for being such a selfish bastard. I complimented him on his sales technique and closed the door.

I get angry at myself for employing Full Asshole Mode, and I get angry at the person for making me employ Full Asshole Mode. I want a moat, but the damned Home Owners Association said no, and incidentally, you need a new mailbox and to paint your house.

Later – after managing a bit of fitful, rage-filled sleep, I drove my wife back to her school, where she had a Board meeting to attend. I got some groceries, including  much-needed Pug Dog Chow, and it was on the way home that the day received its coda: waiting at a red light a bird swooped in low over the line of waiting cars, and landed on my car’s antenna, which is one of those that extends on an angle above the driver’s side window. Well, that’s unusual, but sorta cool, I thought. And then the bird poop started running down my window.

The only proper response was laughter. Anything else would have been ridiculous or pathetic. So I laughed, and decided that maybe it was time to finally wash the car.

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