Multitasking

This morning the doorbell rang while I was sitting on the toilet. I stopped my urine mid-stream, pulled on my pants, and ran to answer it. I was fortunate that the loud sound didn't jar me enough to unseat me and make me spray my own pant leg. When I returned, the phone was in the process of ringing. I suspected marketing or survey-taking was afoot, having received approximately four such calls in the past two days, and did not answer it, instead listening with one ear as I pulled on a warmer sweater. I figured any glass to be cut during the day would have to be handled without the benefit of my chilled girl-parts. The caller left no message, and I finished the soggy cereal I had abandoned for my bathroom emergency.

This evening, I was unloading the dishwasher while talking about the movie about the Pope on the phone with my mother and thinking that I heard something about that at some point in the past couple months, but don't remember watching any TV at all this week, let alone a two-parter. The Caller ID tone sounded, and I seized the brief pause between calls to emit the fart that had been building in my intestines, a side effect of too much milk in my afternoon serenity tea.

Not knowing how to work the complicated phone, even after 2 1/2 years, I missed the second call and disconnected the first. I attempted to check my blog for comments while redialing my mother. Her line was busy, so I sorted whites and colors and then called her again.

We reconnected and chatted briefly while I noticed and scrutinized a piece of mouse poop and tried to discern whether it was sufficiently dessicated that it could have originated before Operation Stove Removal and Hole Plugging, or whether it was fresh. The jury's still out on that one. Needless to say, I cleaned it up immediately and threw in a load of laundry as my intestines grumbled, "We're not done with you yet," and then hung up the phone. As I started reading my comments, the phone rang again; my mom had forgotten to tell me something. Right after we hung up, Ty called.

The marketer/survey-taker finally called while I was perched on a chair, attempting to disconnect the overly sensitive smoke detector that was angry at my having optimistically preheated the oven to make a pumpkin pie. I released several more loud farts as I scurried down to check the Caller ID.

As I sit writing this, the smoke detector is on the table in front of me, chirping loudly and intermittently despite my repeat pressure on the "Hush" button. No pie for us. A single strand of Christmas lights, our one nod thus far to the season, not having had time to haul out the 50-pound nativity set, blinks on "Seizure Mode." My colon is preparing a sneak attack, the likes of which will only intensify after tonight's rare takeout meal, given that I'm too exhausted to cook and Ty is sick and exhausted, which means that I should be sick in a few days, too. (In the middle of typing that last sentence, the doorbell rang and the takeout food arrived.) Did I mention that it's 9 pm?

I have conveniently avoided writing about everything that happened in the course of my workday, too, as I don't want to max out my space allotment on Blogger, but let me tell you, it makes my downtime look relaxing.

This is pretty much a typical day (with the exception of the not cooking). It's like living the opening scene of Diary of a Mad Housewife, and I don't even have children yet. How on earth do you people do it?

UPDATE: As I sat proofreading and posting this entry on Friday morning, the doorbell rang again, and I ran to answer it in my pajamas with the little shoes all over them.

SECOND UPDATE: The phone rang twice during my ten-minute shower. Based on this traffic, you'd think that I would have been more popular in high school.