Can You Hear Me Now?

Thursday, Mar. 11, 2004 - 7:26 a.m.

Wednesday was a lovely day. The weather was beautiful, and it began with a visit with Dave Marron for our breakfast. He has graciously agreed to do another guest shot here in Diaryland, and he's already considering some intriguing subject matter.

The afternoon was a perfect example of spring. I went out into the weather and walked to the post office to mail a package, and my allergies were in high evidence. After I left the post office, I went to my favorite little stationery store, where I was assaulted, literally, by a mommy who was trying to shove a stroller up and down the narrow aisle; I'm glad the child was out getting some nice fresh air and sunshine, but why on earth didn't mommy take the other store patrons into consideration and leave the stroller just inside the door and carry the baby around for the grand tour instead? Oh, wait, I forgot. The world revolves around children, and sometimes, those of us who don't have any are relegated to the cheap seats. :)

I got home and put the fan in the window to keep the place cool, and began the battle against the dust that always comes in whenever the window is open and the fan is on. I called John at work to visit with him before he had to leave work and go to his chiropractic appointment. After that, the heat of the day kind of settled on me, so I doffed my duds and crawled into bed -- and the phone rang. It was Cheri, just calling to say howdy and see if there was anything she needed to bring with her. I couldn't think of anything offhand.

The evening progressed, and I made my usual rounds online -- I goofed on Todd Thalimer and Scott Hysmith, emailing each of them for suggestions for activities that wouldn't end up in my disfigurement or demise -- and waited for John to get home. He was usually due home sometime between eight and eight thirty on the night he goes to see the chiropractor.

Seven o' clock came and went.

At eight o' clock, I went to the kitchen and made dinner.

At eight fifteen, I decided to log off in case John wanted to call.

At eight thirty, I turned on the radio to begin listening for transit delays. Everybody else in the depth and breadth of the city and county of San Francisco got home from work.

At eight forty-five, I began listening to the all news radio station to see if there had been any shootings in the neighborhood where John's chiropractor is located.

At nine, I started thinking about where I was going to be and what I was going to be doing when the police arrived to inform me what had happened to him. I went back to bed with the lights on, clutching one of my stuffed rabbits and upset at myself for wasting money so foolishly on new towels and new underwear when there were going to be funeral expenses needing to be met.

At ten minutes after nine, John got home.

He'd been so tired he didn't think to stop and call, he just wanted to get home, and in fact had blinked and noticed that the final ten blocks of his bus ride disappeared.

I looked at him standing there. He's home. He's really home. And he's okay.

I hugged my husband.

And I burst into tears. Grateful, loud, snotfaced, ruined shirt, Ugly Cry tears.

John was overwhelmed at the thought that I would have been *that* worried about him, and at one point, he cried a little as well. We got through the rest of the evening, and I kept looking over at him, sitting next to me in his recliner. I remember touching his arm and feeling the soft hair that became finer as it reached his hand and dwindled to nothing on those gentle fingertips -- and wondering what my life would have been like if I had never been able to do that again.

We're pricing cell phones.

I'm never going to have another night like this.

After twelve and a half years of wedded bliss, John has skipped one too many calls home due to the inconvenience of not being able to find a way to call; I'm too much of a worry wart, and most of all, since there's no more chocolate in my life, I'd rather have a different form of security handy.

A cell phone will suffice. ;)

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In other news, Barry Bonds hurt his back in batting practice yesterday. This coincidentally comes just as the Balco investigation into steroid use in sports is hitting its stride. Now Mr. Bonds will be able to have a plausible excuse if he's found to have any in his system. What, these? Oh, I took stuff for my sore back. Yeah, that's all. No, honest, it is.

Also, being a thirty-nine-year-old lardass isn't helping his back any. Come to think of it, how come Barry got so big so fast? Hmmm?

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Finally, to Steve Moore of the Colorado Avalanche -- get well soon.

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