I’m in the shower, all soaped up when suddenly there’s banging on the bathroom door. I see the door handle rattle back and forth in vain against the lock. If I don’t shut and lock the bathroom door I don’t get a moment’s worth of peace. There’s always someone wanting to get in, demanding my attention. If it’s not my husband (no, you can’t hop into my shower) then it’s my son, the dog, or in the case of one day last year, a partially deflated mylar Darth Vader balloon that caught some current in the air and floated, eye level to me, into the bathroom while I watched in horror and tried to suppress a scream (calm down. it’s just an air current, not a ghost. there are no ghosts. how would you know? you can’t see them…maybe it IS a ghost dragging that balloon… if it gets any closer, then surely it’s ghost…. RUN!).
And so I lock the bathroom door.
But that doesn’t stop people from banging on it.
“What?” I demand.
Muffled sounds come from the other side. The fan is running, the water is streaming down my face. I can’t make out what he wants.
“WHAT?” I holler again.
But again, I can’t make out the words on the other side of the door.
Soapy and perturbed I shut off the water.
“What do you want? I can’t hear you. I’m in the SHOWER!”
“MOM. HOW OLD WERE YOU IN 1902?” Snags scream-asks.
Now I’m really annoyed. This wasn’t an emergency. And REALLY!?!
“I wasn’t even BORN yet,” I holler. “I wasn’t born until 1968!”
“Oh yeah! I forgot!” Snags yells back. “I was thinking you were born in 1868!”
I roll my eyes and turn the water back on. I’m careful rinsing. I don’t want my rotting flesh and bones to disintegrate in the stream of the shower and clog up the plumbing. I thought that Darth Vader balloon was kind of scary. I can only imagine the horror a plumber would feel upon finding zombie parts in the shower drain.
Running With Books 