You know about my potty mouth. And how I’m trying to clean it up for my son’s sake. And you know how my husband gives me a hard time because he grew up in a curse-free home.
Well . . .
The phone rang around 8:45 last night (Ben was already in bed, thankfully). I answered, “Hello?” Nothing, just the dead air you often experience with telemarketers, requiring two “hellos” before they answer. I assumed it was just that – a telemarketing call – and irritated by the intrusion snapped, “Who the fuck is this?”
A quiet, familiar voice said, “Jenny?” Oh. Crap. It was my mother-in-law. And not just her, but my father-in-law, too, on the other extension. I was seized simultaneously by abject shame and a case of nervous giggles.
“Uhhh, I’m soooo sorry, I thought you were a telemarketer!” I gasped.
“I guess I know what kind of day you’re having,” she answered wryly. God love the woman, she had a sense of humor about it. Jim just sat on the couch, shaking his head.
After a few more pathetic apologies from me, the conversation moved on, thanks to the graciousness of my in-laws. Later, I told Jim it would have only been worse if it had been our minister. “No,” he answered, “it’s worse with my mom.”
The up side to all this? I got to skip the soap, since Ben didn’t hear me!
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