It’s so quiet in here right now.
The tapping of these keys are the only thing that’s making a sound.
Except… yep, there it is. Nancy let one go.
When there’s an empty house, devoid of juvenile static, there’s a greater annoyance with sounds you never noticed before. And an even greater exasperation with the person making said sounds. We all know to whom I’m referring, and it’s not the canine males in residence.
I’ve never noticed just how many times a day he clears his throat, coughs, clears, coughs and clears again. I won’t mention the strangled expulsion he also performs as a crescendo, because I will throw up.
When I complain, he giggles.
He doesn’t even notice I’m standing behind him wearing gloves and holding a clothesline, taut.
There’s no female judge in the land who would convict me.
I’m now two floors above him and I hear it.
The tuneless, aimless whistling.
It’s like he’s in the “Great Escape” and he’s whistling to throw-off the guards in a German war camp!
Well, this isn’t prison and I ain’t Steve McQueen.
“Can you please stop whistling?! I’m trying to concentrate!” I yell from my attic perch.
“Nope!” he yells back, aggravatingly good-natured.
“I hate you,” under my breath.
You’ll never identify the tunes he whistles.
Because he merges the theme from the “Love Boat,” with the theme from “Gilligan’s Island,” and throws in anything from The Doors. It’s just an invitation for me to commit Hari Kari, is what it is.
Maybe that’s his goal.
He’s halfway there.
And ladies, when your men eat spare ribs, tell me, do they immediately floss their teeth standing right in the kitchen?
I didn’t think so.
If I wanted samples of his partially digested food to identify his time of death, I’d hire a forensics team to swab it right from my cupboard doors.
I raised him better than this.
I’ve also become acutely aware that his yawn has expanded and grown and fills the rooms of this house like oxygen.
It’s a yawn-howl hybrid.
I’ve been to the Philadelphia Zoo and I know what an elephant’s mating call sounds like; this man is barking up the wrong proverbial tree.
Right zoo. Wrong tree.
Oh, I know I do things to annoy him, too.
For example, I don’t align the coffeepot handle the correct way when I return it to the coffeemaker.
I swear to God. It has to be centered. This from a man who wore his shirt inside out for the entire day on Sunday.
Also, apparently I sniffle a lot. Sniffling is an issue. But what irritates him the most is my grating habit of shelling and eating pistachios in bed.
I really have to work on that.
There’s no hope for us in this empty house. No hope.
I want to pad the walls of the garage, dig a hole for his waste and throw him out there to live. He can floss with abandon.
Let’s call it His Great Escape.