I am trapped on the toilet because the coffee I drank encouraged my body to grant ten seconds of warning before assplosion.
And then the doorbell rings.
I’m not expecting anyone, but I feel the pressure of someone standing just down the hallway impatiently waiting for me to answer the door. I also feel the pressure of what looks to be another ten minutes of bathroom time.
Of course, I have my fifth appendage with me, my iPhone, so I call Scott to see if it’s him just being lazy. Or maybe needing my help. But probably lazy.
Scott: I’m still at the grocery store.
Me: I just didn’t want you to think that I was ignoring you. I’m stuck in the bathroom.
Scott: Well, don’t answer the door because there’s been a series of break-ins in our neighborhood.
Me: Um, did you lock it?
Me: Okay, hopefully, by the time they break down the door, I’ll have stopped crapping myself.
Scott: Gotta go.
Me: Wait! I’m nervous now! (also, will never get off the toilet now)
But Scott already hung up. Then the doorbell rings again.
I think: Who rings the doorbell twice? Robbers casing the house, that’s who.
I finally break free of my porcelain perch and sneak into the kitchen because I don’t want to get caught by the doorbell ringer. Even if it’s NOT a bad guy, my only excuse for not answering the door is my butt. Not exactly a neighborly conversation.
I tiptoe past the refrigerator and catch the attention of my cat whose frantic meowing at the back door could be a dead giveaway for my whereabouts. I inch closer to the door, but I notice that Loki keeps getting distracted by something to his left. Well, I’ve seen THIS MOVIE before. The cat is going to have to open his OWN door. Also, now my phone is one click away from 9-1-1.
I go into recognizance mode and begin noting whether my fence, which surrounds the perimeter of the backyard, is secure and if all entrances to my home are in lock down. I continue to patrol the house by popping up my head just above the windowsill at specific points throughout my downstairs.
I may or may not have army-crawled to the second floor and with bare-flicker of my shutters, I assess the front yard and spy THE PESTMASTER TRUCK
I call Scott AGAIN to see if he had scheduled a visit by Mr. Ring-The-Doorbell-Eight-Times-Bug-Man because otherwise, the truck is a great cover for stealing my stuff. I’m totally cracking this case WIDE OPEN.
Scott: I didn’t schedule them BUT they may have called me five times this week TO schedule a visit.
But I still have to wait upstairs until the the robber-turned-bug-killer is gone.
Because even if he is on my side, I don’t want to discuss my butt with him.