Week 5 prompts

7. You’ve lost It! Where is It?


My husband's phone is always MIA. Which is weird because most of the time he is obsessing over it. It is like his little pet, always within arms reach. But, apparently, even something close enough to bite you, can be lost. Under the couch cushion, a book, or even a cake. Yes, he has lost his phone underneath a sheet cake. Don't ask me how he does it, it is as if he has suffered an injury eliminating his short-term  memory. I guess that is why if I am talking to him, and I ask him what I just said, he cannot answer.
His irresponsibility towards his phone also extends to it's maintenance. Currently, his phone has two types of industrial tape (duct and electrical) holding it together. It is also decorated with spray paint, grout, and some sort of undefined substance accumulated at work. Given all the physical issues with the phone, the most annoying part is that it is NEVER charged. Constantly, it calls out to me. 'Beep, beep' I'm sure is what it sounds like to everyone else but to my ears it is, 'Please, help me. Save me from this neglectful tyrant'.
The other day, surprise! He lost his phone. And again, surprise! It is dying. We can hear it beeping from the unknown, taunting us. Before he so much as lifts a finger he asks the question I hear approximately ten times a day, 'Babe, can you call my phone?'
Instead of surrendering to his laziness, I decide to fight. 'No, this one is on you.' I say.
He starts looking. First, he sweeps the area by sight before giving up. 'Seriously, can you call it?'
'Nope.'
His search extends to lifting up a blanket. He looks at me with angry eyes. I smile back with my phone clutched tight in my grasp. A look of shock tears across his face. 'I forgot to order my tux for the wedding! I have to do it in the next..' He looks at the clock and his eyes widen. 4:55. '5 minutes! Okay, give me your phone and I will call it.'
I give in. I guess he has a legitimate excuse this time. But next time, I will break him of his bad habit. I hit the green call button twice. His number is almost always the last one I have called, so I don't even look. We wait in silence for music. He has a ring tone of some rock song that I have heard a thousand times but still don't know the name of. It never rings. I check my phone to make sure I called the right number. It says 'Ron', like always. But this time I notice it has gone straight to voice-mail. It is dead. Really? Lost and dead, double whammy.
Where is it? Now I am freaking out too. We both begin to throw things in urgency. We must have looked in the same place as the other five times. I lift a pillow, he is right behind me lifting the same pillow. As if my eyes don't work as well as his. Every thirty seconds we look at the clock, then at each other with an 'oh shit' expression on our faces. 4:57, 58, 59. We are frantic now. My husband lifts up the couch off the floor. This reminds me of a story I heard about 6 year old lifting a fourwheeler off his dad in a crazy adrenaline rush. Only this adrenaline rush is a 25 year old's love of his cellphone.
Then it hits me. Why didn't I think of it before? He can just use my phone to call about his tux. I throw my head back partially relieved, but mostly in guilt for being so stupid. I exclaim, 'Use my phone!' He rolls his eyes, the stupidity again.
I hand him the phone and he makes a quick call to order the tux. He gives his measurements, thanks the woman on the other end, and hangs up. I put my hand out, a gesture asking for my phone back and that's when I see it. A small, rectangular shape in his breast pocket. His phone! 'Are you kidding me?' I thought, and apparantly said outloud without knowing it because Ron answered.
'I know, were so dumb. We could have used your phone the whole time.'
I didn't tell him about his phone. Just gave up the search and watched him look for about 20 more minutes until he made the same discovery. Only he pretended he found it behind the couch to save himself the embarrassment. And his ego was saved. Until he reads this post.

18. The earth has moved under your feet, gloriously!--and nothing will ever be the same again


I was the luckiest 15 year old to ever grace my high school. Or at least that's what I thought when I got my restricted license. Nobody could touch me. I was the only freshman to be cool enough to drive, not only that, have my own car. It was a 1990 Chevrolet Beretta. A kind-of ugly shade of gray, but not a speck of rust. The interior was perfect except that the fabric on the back seat was torn and sagging down. So, I threw one of my many tapestries from Mexicali Blues on and called it good. I probably would have put one on there anyway.
In school, I was asked many times how I could have my license at 15. I would reply, 'I have connections', something else mysterious like that. I never explained that with a restriced license, you could only drive to school and work. You could not have anyone in the car with you, and you couldn't drive after 8. Minor details.
Despite the rules, of course I drove all my friends around. Places other than work or school. Or if I was going to either, I would always take the longest route possible. One day, driving to my sister's in Orono with my friend Miranda (neither work or school) I wanted to see just how fast the car could go. So, on the stretch of interstate between Orono and Old Town, let the Beretta loose. It went exactly 128 miles per hour. It felt like the car was going to collapse beneath us. The entire car shook, and to be honest, I was a little scared for my life. Though I would have never admitted it at the time.
Then, in front of us I spotted a black Chevy Impala. It was the new model, the one I had been obsessing about for the last month. Miranda didn't even know what an Impala was. I decided at that moment, it was my duty to introduce them. I sped up to about 90 and passed the beauty. I said, 'Now do you know what I am talking about?' She didn't even see it. So I slowed and let the car pass us. This time Miranda said, 'Oh yeah, that's cool.' She was unimpressed. I am not sure exactly who the next look was for, but I passed the car one last time.
Then I heard the siren. Not the kind that goes on and on until the point when you think to yourself, 'Enough already, I heard you a mile ago'. But two quick little chirps. They came from the beauty. At first I didn't believe it. Had I really been passing a cop and not even known? Where was the radar in the front window? Where was the weird extra side mirror they always have. It didn't even have government plate. It couldn't be.
The car, still on the right of us since I passed it for the third time, pulled up parallel to my car. In the front seats were two men, dressed in black suits. The man driving looked over through our window. I nearly peed myself. Excuses ran through my head, but I couldn't come up with an emergency that would warrant my speed, passenger and location all in one. I looked over at the man driving. He slowly raised his hand (or at least it seemed slow at the time, as if time had stopped) horizontally and moved it up and down. A motion saying, 'slow it down'. I looked at his face expecting a stern expression, but to my surprise I didn't find it. He was smirking, almost amused at my irresponsible actions. I let out a sigh of relief and continued on to the next exit.
Later, when we arrived at our destination, Miranda and I went over and over the details of the incident. We couldn't figure out why we weren't pulled over. Maybe they were off duty? On the way to a much bigger call, so they didn't have time to pull over a couple teenagers goofing off? In the end, we decided they must have thought we were too gorgeous to arrest, and that's what we told people.
The next day, on my way home from Orono. I had to leave early to get to work while everyone else went out to breakfast. I had made it all the way to my parking spot when, BAM, I hit the car next to me. Luckily, I was on my way to work, it wasn't after 8 p.m., and I did not have a passenger. However, I did ruin the entire driver's side of my Beretta, lost my restricted license, and my mother made me pay the difference in the insurance bill.
Over the next year, I was in three more accidents, all of them minor. Even if I combined them all, piled up all the emotion and fear I felt from each, they still wouldn't compare to the day I could have, potentially, might have, gone to jail. But they did send the Beretta to the car-morgue. Where ever that is. And after saving for an entire summer, my next car was a brand new, black, Chevrolet Impala.   Just kidding, it was a Civic. Which I also crashed.

24. We name the guilty man!

I stand up from the table as I finish my dinner. Grady has been done for a few minutes and I already brought him to the sink to wash and brush. The normal meal-time routine. I take care of my plate and fork and make my way over to the counter that holds my beloved desert. A cupcake. In fact, the last cupcake. I called dibs on it yesterday, so I know my husband wouldn't dare touch it. I go to lift the tinfoil that shelters my beloved and disappointment washes over me. It is gone.
My dissapointment takes a quick turn towards anger. I look at my husband and say, 'What the hell?' while holding up the tinfoil.
He looks surprisingly innocent. Almost like he had forgotten the crime he committed all together. 'What?'
'My cupcake! You ate it and I called dibs. Babe, I was so looking forward to that cupcake. Look, it's even on my agenda for the evening.' I take out a piece of paper, and point, 'Look, Dinner, cupcake, bath, bed.'
I even wrote it on my list, that is serious. I am always making lists, it's sort-of an ocd thing. One time, my husband came into the bedroom and there I was, laying in bed making a list for the next day, as usual. He looked at the notepad, it's the kind that says 'To Do' on the top and has a magnet for the refridgerator, and he realized I was actually making a list of lists I needed to make the next day. I was 'cut-off' as he put it from the notepad for a few days after that.
'I didn't eat your cupcake Felicia.'
I don't know if it is my brutal accusation or his guilt that makes him say 'Felicia'. He only calls me that when he means business. All other times it is babe, hun, those types of things.
'Well, it didn't just get up and walk away! This sucks, my whole night is ruined.'
'Really? Because of a cupcake? Wow, you need to have this baby soon.'
This statement sends me to a whole other level. He always blames things on the pregnancy. So, maybe I was a little hormonal, but then why the hell would he eat my cupcake? He must enjoy the rage it has sent me in. I go into the bathroom and start the bath. 'This will calm me down', I think to myself. 'But it is no cupcake.' I climb in the bathtub, belly not included. It looks like a giant island protruding from the bathwater. I start to think about my devil's food chocolate cupcake with cream cheese frosting. My favorite. The I hear the front door shut. I finish up in the bath, which takes about twice as long being 9 months pregnant, and get my P.J.'s on. When I am finally done, I come into the living room to find a huge bag of Dysart's cookies on the table. He does love me.
I stop Ron on his way to the nursery to put Grady to bed. 'I'm sorry. I guess I am a tiny bit emotional.'
'It's okay' he says, and kisses my forehead.
I sit on the couch with my bag of cookies when I hear. 'Babe, come hear quick!'
Panic comes over me. Grady is in there, is he okay? Did I leave any choking hazards lying around by mistake? Maybe he fell and hit his head on something, he has been really quiet tonight. I waddle as fast as I can to his room. My eyes catch him, and scan over his entire body for injury. 'What? Is he okay? What's the matter?'
Ron points under Grady's crib and I see it. My cupcake. Or at least what used to be my cupcake. It has been mangled almost beyond recognition, reduced to crumbs and white frosting smears. Both Ron and I start laughing uncontrollably. Grady looks where Ron is pointing, sticks his finger in a glob of frosting. 'Mmm' he says with his finger in his mouth.