Jon de Vos: On guard for the scam
October 31, 2011
Oh yes, indeed, there’s quite the scam going around.
It dawned on me in the middle of the night that not only was I a victim of that scam, but my wife is the perpetrator.
That was my uncharitable thought when I woke up Monday morning after a hard weekend laboring around the house. Rich people name their houses. I call ours The Dreaded Work Camp.
My wife was gone for the weekend, doing whatever it is that she does whenever she’s not here. I don’t know, don’t pry, and simply remind her that one still cannot post bail with a credit card in most jurisdictions.
“So, I left you a little list if you could get to it,” she said as she sailed out of the garage in a billow of exhaust fumes. A list. Ha-ha. Not in my plans.
You should know that when it comes to chores around the house, I do well beyond the lion’s share of complaining about them. I’m not going to belittle my wife, but I will tell you for certain that I spend a lot more time moaning about housework than she does.
Just ask her who does all the laundry around the place. I’ll tell you who. Ever since ‘the incident’ with her new white pants and my new red t-shirt, she does, that’s who. I mean, she’s better at it. A couple needs to go with their individual strengths.
The list ran two pages of things I’ve been putting off since August. August? That was months ago. Why bring it up now? She won’t be back for two days. Netflix!
Fade to: One day gone in a sea of horror movies. Start of day two. Phone rings, “Hey,” says a familiar voice, “how’s the list going?”
“Almost done,” I admit modestly, adding “reading it,” under my breath.
“What did you say? Oh, never mind, I just called to tell you that Bill and Annie are coming over for dinner tonight, so would you straighten the place up and pull the squash soup out of the freezer? I’ll be home about the time they arrive.”
“Squash soup?” I said, looking around the kitchen, littered with pizza boxes and half-empty microwave popcorn bags. Cherry Garcia was dripping down the front of the dishwasher and one of the dogs had barfed in the middle of the living room, “Straighten up? That may not be possible.”
But it was. The pharaohs built the pyramids, Noah built the ark, I got the house straightened up.
No one could ever tell that six hours earlier, it had looked like a frat house the morning after pledge night.
She walked in the door, looked around, nodded in satisfaction, took her bag upstairs to change into something comfortable. A few minutes later, she returned, holding her phone aloft, “I just got a text from Annie. It looks like she and Bill can’t make it after all. Oh, what a shame, and the house looks so nice. By the way, I’m having some ladies over in the morning, don’t mess anything up tonight, please.”
My sleep was troubled until 2 a.m. when I sat bolt upright, staring into the dark.
I’d been scammed! Don’t let it happen to you.
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