“Daddy’s home!” Chooch cried from the window yesterday. I looked out and sure enough, there was Henry, parked across the street in the lot. The driver’s side window was cracked open, and he appeared to be talking on the phone. He’ll do that sometimes, hide in the quiet sanctity of the car while on the phone in lieu of walking into the Killing Fields, aka Home.
I opened the window for Chooch to protrude his cantaloped head, at which time he began hollering, “Daddy! Daddy’s a dumbass!” causing entire voleries of birds to fly away in horror. Because I’m five-years-old, this seemed like a fun way to waste time, so I joined him. Along with the heckling, I brought to the table an impressive scale of operatic screams. And then Chooch outshone me by screeching, “MAGGOTS MICHAEL!” over and over. In addition to Henry’s, we caused quite a few people to whip their heads in our direction.
This went on without relent for a good fifteen minutes, and every time Henry would turn his face toward us, we would laugh even harder.
“I bet Daddy is SO PISSED,” I laughed, elbowing Chooch.
“Don’t elbow me! I can’t like that,” Chooch whined, adding some devil eyes for impact. (Chooch never says he doesn’t like something, it’s always that he CAN’T like it.)
Then he threw his pacifier out the window, which caused him to cheer and clap before realizing the severity of the situation. I assured him that Henry would be off the phone anytime now and that he would get it, because Mommy didn’t have her shoes on.
But then another ten minutes passed and I’m starting to think, “What the fuck, who is he talking to out there?” First I’m annoyed, but then all kinds of hypothetical horrors begin to cross my mind, all of which involve his ex-wife. Especially since he kept making hostile hand movements and he only does that while on the phone with her. (Probably me too, but obviously I can’t witness that.) Meanwhile, Chooch had remembered that he tossed his paci out for the birds and commanded that I go and get my shoes on.
I made a big production of going outside for paci-retrieval, picking it up and thrusting it in the direction of Henry, silently miming, “Fuck you, I saved the day for Chooch, you worthless father!” There I was, standing in the front yard, wearing green capri sweatpants, green and white striped knee-highs and green tennis shoes. And a shirt, don’t worry, my boobs were clothed. I’m standing out there, looking like the tallest Leprechaun, commemorating my annoyance for Henry with a puppet show of universal lewd gesticulations and bellowing “GET OFF THE PHONE, DOUCHEBARREL!”
Ew, I was so pissed that he was just SITTING THERE on the phone that whole time, when he should have been in the house spending what little free time he has with Chooch. And making me lunch.
I called him, and of course he didn’t click over. I thought to myself that he had better be on the phone with a jeweler ironing out details of a blood-infused diamond ring if he wanted his balls to remain un-thumbtacked. I was about to go outside and storm the car, grab my battering ram on the way out, but I knew there was no way Chooch would stay in the house and wait for me. You got lucky this time Henry, I thought with a scowl.
And then, I don’t know what happened. Something must have distracted me because Chooch and I left our post at the window and moved on to other things. Which probably means iCarly was on.
Somewhere around twenty minutes later, Chooch yelled, “Daddy!” again. I looked out in time to see Henry pulling out of the lot. I figured he was going to pull into the driveway, probably he brought some cases of beverage home from work for us. So Chooch and I are smashed against the door, jumping around like assholes and shouting, when Henry drove right past the house.
Chooch immediately burst into tears. But I made eye contact just long enough to realize that it wasn’t Henry after all. We had spent the better part of an hour harrassing a perfect stranger. A perfect stranger who will probably never again park across from my house to engage in a phone conversation.