Every morning, Tony goes to work in stealth mode. Usually he leaves before me, so I get that last precious half hour of sleep while he is getting ready to go to work. I don’t know how he does it. I don’t even hear his alarm clock, that’s how incredibly sensitive he is. I may hear Sa caterwauling when she wants to jump on his lap, but I never hear anything he is doing in the morning. Because he is my angel.
I, on the other hand, could wake a hibernating bear with my morning routine. I try so hard to be quiet, but I have decided it is genetically impossible. Not undesirable, and not a goal to be sought, but nevertheless a futile endeavor. Because my Mother and sister can’t get ready in the morning without it sounding like the NY stock exchange has camped out in our living room.
But Tony must have been a CIA operative in a former life. That’s what made this morning so bad.
We’re babysitting Cappy, my mama’s doggy, while my Mom is out of town. Dog-sitting the Capster (aka Capp-uccino, Cappy-tain, Cappito Burrito, and Cappellini) is not hard. My sister’s dogs are far higher-maintenance than Cappy. Other than taking a shit in my bedroom withing 5 minutes of entering my home (which he does at PetSmart), he is remarkably well-behaved. There is the occasional barking, but it is not a madhouse. He is a little aloof, mourning the loss of my Mom for the last week, but otherwise a good little doggy.
Again, I never get up before Tony. So this morning I thought I would do Tony a favor. Because Cappy must be watched when put outside to poop. Apparently pooping is a community affair for him, because if I just let him out, he won’t poop. He will sit dejectedly by the back door, patiently and silently begging to be let in by leaning ostentatiously against the door frame. Melodrama doggy, licking his forlorn lips and suffering from his separation from the pack. Agh. Spare me. So I stumble to the back door in my bathrobe, unlock the door, and open it.
WOOP! WOOP! WOOP! WOOP! WOOP! WOOP!
Hah. We have an alarm on the house and I didn’t disarm it before opening the door. So I frantically race to the wall to turn it off, thinking, God, what must the neighbors think. It is times like this that I feel semi-low-class. I never had an alarm. Not one that was always on, anyway, and so I never imagined that sound could be so grating and terrifying all at the same time. I have insecurities about my lawn and its inadequacies, too, but right now I simply don’t have the time to deal with it. So weed creep in like the fourth horseman. Maybe everything weedy in our garden will die over winter and I won’t have to worry about it. I thought I would never be watching the Joneses, but I have begun to.
I turn around, frazzled, shouting an apology to my poor (formerly) sleeping husband, and look outside. Cappy. Leaning. My nerves are fried, and if I tried to put on makeup now, shaky like this, I would poke my eyes out, so I went outside to accompany him so he will de-waste himself. I sit and smoke and think…damn. Genetically predisposed to waking people up.
Then I hear my phone ring. Inside the house. !?!?!?!?!? If it’s my 8:30 student I will kill her. Poor poor Tony. Oh my God. I race outside with the phone so my conversation doesn’t wake Tony any more. It’s the alarm company, and they want to know my password.
I can’t remember it.
It was something….uhhhhhhh…Oh God.
The lady on the phone says I need to tell her in 30 seconds. So no pressure, right.
My mind races and finally I say the magic word, and she OKs it. We hang up. I remember I am outside and maybe a neighbor heard my password. Shit.
Which is what Cappy did. So we go inside. Sa is on her Daddy’s side of the bed, still hurt that I tried to kill her by drowning her last night (It was a bath, OK, people. She needed it.)
So I am grateful that she won’t be wailing and bothering me this morning. Because it is technically possible that none of this woke Tony up (ha ha, the things we tell ourselves.) So I go about my business, dropping things, but generally being quite successful at being silent for Tony. I even stick my hand in the ice box to retrieve ice because I want to be quiet. I hate the idea of hands touching ice I am going to put in my cup, but hey, I set off the alarm earlier. The least I could do is let him sleep continuously after all that.
I pick up my purse, and am looking for my shoes and
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!! DING-DONG DING-DONG!! BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM (you get the picture).
The trusy police were there to confirm that it wasn’t a break-in. And of course, Poor Tony had the bedroom door open. Cappy darts outside in a flitter, all aquiver, Oh new people! new people! and I try to explain what happened. Officer GOB, all business, ma’am, wants to see my DL.
Of course. All the way on the other side of the house. Grab the dog before he pees in ecstasy on the policeman’s nice, shiny, authoritarian and slightly scary, patent-leather boots. I go to get it, and wouldn’t ya know it. I have the wrong address on my license.
They need to see some official mail with my name on it at this address. Because I so have time to be dicking around with a dog and the police.
I have to go to work!!!!!!
I wasn’t really going to be late to work if I drove 50 in a 35, so I apologized to my husband while running down the hall, and said “I love you, honey” in the hopes that he would say it back, horribly ashamed of my noisy-ass existence.
Dog starts barking at the trash man. Who comes on Thursday. At this time. Of course. You idiot!!! SSSSSSSHHHH! My poor poor husband. My poor husband.
What do I hear him call down the hall before I walk out the door? “I love you baby. I love you…have a good day at work. Be safe.”
He is perfect.