When the phone rings in my house, several things can happen.
The first thing is that constant ringing seems to have no effect at all on the males. My son might be standing right next to the phone and he will look at it as if thinking, “What is that noise, anyway?”
The other day I was up to my elbows in dishwashing soap and the phone rang. My son was in the next room, not far from a phone. I kept thinking, “Surely he will eventually pick it up.” But no, several rings later I heard the answering machine pick up. Talking on the phone is not one of the highlights of his day. We females just don’t understand how you males can ignore it.
My husband says stuff like, “If it was important, they’ll call back.”
This sort of thinking will make a woman insane. We can’t stand to miss something, anything, anyone who might be calling, who might be inviting us somewhere, who might be telling us the latest gossip, who needs to know what someone is wearing to the party. The phone is our lifeline.
It beckons us. We must answer. And quickly.
My daughter’s phone rang. In a matter of milliseconds, we saw her flash by the kitchen, down the hall, she did a tuck and roll, a front flip, and landed on her back on her bed, the phone already to her ear.
I do believe phone answering could become the next Olympic sport.
Of course, that same need to answer can also drive a woman to drink.
One day I was in the laundry room, surrounded by clothes, baskets, and hangars. I had the two-gallon jug of Tide in my hand, carefully pouring it into the cap. The phone rang.
I put down the jug, spilling soap on my hands and all over the dryer. I jumped over one pile of clothes and stubbed my toe on the washing machine. A hangar got caught on my pants and I shook my leg to get rid of it and it flew into the dog’s water, spilling it on the floor. The phone rang again, and the need to answer was now urgent. I raced across the kitchen and grabbed the receiver before the third ring. I swiped the hair out of my face, coating the strands with Tide Ultra.
“Hello!” I said, out of breath.
“Good morning, Mrs. Higgins,” the cheery voice said. “How are you doing today?” I hate phone calls that start out with “How are you doing today?”
“Do you own your home, Mrs. Higgins?” the voice asked.
For this I had one hurt toe, sticky hair, and two messes to clean up.
I’ll leave out the next part, but I’m pretty sure she crossed me off her list.
