At the back of the hill

Warning: If you stay here long enough you will gain weight! Grazing here strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton. And you might like cheese-doodles.
BTW: I'm presently searching for another person who likes cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Thursday, December 01, 2016

WAITING FOR THE PHONE TO RING

This blogger is a very talented man. I can channel for people who aren't here, and interpret what they would have said if they had been here. Brilliantly.

Phone call: "Hello, may we speak to the lady of the house?"

"Speaking."

That wasn't the right response, apparently.

An hour later they called again: "Hello, may we speak to the lady of the house?"

"You're speaking to her."

As previously, there was something wrong with that answer. Can sales call generating computers tell when someone is lying? It can't be my voice, that would be so genderist!

They were actually speaking to the 'man of the house', but I prefer not to think of myself in those terms. I am 'apartment occupant in the right-hand side', she is 'apartment occupant in the left-hand side'. We are equals.
And, rather than a hierarchical government with a leader, we are an anarcho-syndicalist commune.


We are both "the lady of the house".
As a man, I can do that.
Talent.


If she wishes to answer any phone calls for "the man of the house", that is perfectly fine. She has a motor car, she is more computer-wiring savvy than me, and she understands plumbing better than I do.


Surely in this era we can dump that paternalistic old-style horse-puckey of "man of the house" and "lady of the house"? It would be more to the point to ask for "Dutch male of the residential unit" and "Chinese female of the residential unit". Such role-assignment would be far more accurate.

I am a white man, and cook far more ethnically than her. Like a typical Chinese American, she cooks mostly Anglo with occasional forays into French or Italian, a la Julia Child, with a hint of Martha Stewart.



She didn't get home till after eight thirty last night.
Which explains this entire train of thought.
Just me with a cup of coffee.
And a telephone.




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