THE LADY OF THE HOUSE

My Apartment Mate stayed home today, because she was off for the holiday. I worked, but I still got home an hour early despite the mudslide on Alexander Avenue, and the horrid rain.
I am often damned glad to be home: one of the regulars talks a mile a minute, and often collars people at random for idea off-bouncing time.
Several of the other people are "special", and it's Marin.
So they are entitled, and blither on inanely.
Sometimes my role is "babysitter".
Sometimes, psycho-therapist.
Frequently, frustrated.


Cigar smokers, can, at times, be real dingos.


When I came in, my Apartment Mate was answering the phone. Normally it's her dumb-ass boyfriend on the other end, so I paid it no mind.
But I really took notice when I heard her, in the voice of one of the stuffed monkeys, exclaim "No! Ah iz NOT the lady of the house, she not home lah, now go fetch me a BANANA. Neeb!".

The person on the line hung up. That may not have been the response they were expecting.
My Apartment Mate giggled, and continued watching teevee.

Quite a while later, when she went in to the kitchen to fix herself some tea, the phone rang again. My turn to answer.


"Is the lady of the house in?"


"I am the lady of the house!"


It should be mentioned that, having recognized it as a sales call or some charitable organization trying to wheezle money out of what they think is the softer party, I was already prejudging. And I have a deep masculine growl when I'm displeased at the effrontery.
When the person on the other end of the line finally understood that not a penny could be squooze and hung up, my Apartment Mate was smiling broadly. "Neeb!"
Between the two of us, we made somebody's life surreal.
And we feel good about that.


Yeah, my Apartment Mate often speaks in the voice of a stuffed monkey. Simplified grammar, crypto-ethnic patois, and invented words.
I am not going to get her a banana, however.
Neeb.


In actuality, there is no lady of the house. Not even the monkey.
None of us want the authority.




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