The husband thinks he is married to Superwoman. The man doesn’t expect me to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but he does think that I can hear through walls, closed doors, Superhero Logoaround corners and up a flight of stairs.
You might think my lack of superpowers would impede our communication, but it really doesn’t.
He will be working from home in the kitchen and I will be working from home in the family room and he will say, “Muum bruff, buddlah budda mm bruff.”
“Pardon?” I ask in a raised voice, still glued to my chair.
“Carton?” he answers back in a raised voice, still glued to his chair.
“That carton of ice cream is gone!” I shout through the wall and around the corner. (Sometimes I twist my mouth when trying to talk to him through walls, thinking it will somehow help the sound wind around the corner.)
Granted, it is only 8:40 a.m. and he probably isn’t looking for a carton of ice cream. It is entirely possible that I may have misunderstood him. It is even possible that I may not have had a clue as to what he said and just took a guess, but the walk from where he is to where I am is the same distance as the walk from where I am to where he is.
He knows he didn’t hear what I said, and that I didn’t hear what he said, but he’s not coming in to ask so I just stay put and add “carton of ice cream” to the grocery list.
A minute or so later he appears and says, “I didn’t say carton, I said ‘pardon.'”
“But I had just said ‘pardon’ to you,” I say.
“No, you said carton,” he says.
“No, I said ‘pardon,’” I say.
“This is going nowhere,” he says.
“And fast,” I say. “Would you like some ice cream?”
When we aren’t talking through walls, he likes to test my supernatural abilities by playing One Flight Up. He waits until I am past the bottom stretch of stairs, and on the next to last stair and starts a conversation from down in the kitchen.
If I am wearing shoes that click, I just keep clicking because I figure he has to hear me on the hardwood floor going upstairs. If I’m not wearing clickers, I usually just shout downstairs, “Oh, I didn’t know about that.”
It’s true. I didn’t know about that and I still don’t know about that. It’s usually a safe response, as the husband works for the media and is constantly relaying stories of crime, death and mayhem, much of which I don’t know about and don’t want to know about.
Medical people tell medical stories, mechanical people tell mechanical stories, news people tell news stories. Sometimes I wish one of us was an impressionistic painter. Our conversations would be more pleasant. And colorful.
Moments ago I heard my stomach rumble so I asked, through the wall, still glued to my chair, “Should I make us something for lunch?”
“No thanks, I don’t need anything to munch,” he shouts back. “I’ll just wait for lunch.”