It started off great but by 3:17am it just went down hill. I still don’t know why my cats have to choose the floor by the foot of the bed in the dead of the night to huck up a fur ball. Jeff barely acknowledge the inside out retching. I didn’t. My mind swirled with images of Jeff stepping out of bed at zero dark thirty and into a pile of furry puke so I grabbed my flashlight and the carpet cleaner and got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed that carpet clean. At 3:19am.
We don’t say I love you with cards and flowers and chocolates at the Barclay house. We say I love you by scrubbing cat vomit off the carpet at 3:19am so the other won’t step in it in the morning.
So I climbed back into bed, ode du Spot Shot replacing the essence of calming lavender. It took about 30 minutes to bring myself back to my calm place and right when I was ready to plunge over the edge into Dreamland our cat hucked up another fur ball. In the hallway. I woke up just enough to calculate the sound of the heaving in relation to my pillow and deduced that it was out of Jeff’s morning ramble to the kitchen so I rolled over and muttered to my pillow, “Screw it.”
I was pretty much back to a sound sleep when our phone rang, at 5 flippin’ 52am. Who calls at 5:52am? Well, I’ll tell you, I didn’t give that person a chance to identify themselves because I was still smelling like Spot Shot. He sounded nice though, at least his stuttered words between my DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS? rhetorical rants did.
After that I laid my head back down on the pillow and looked up at the ceiling and mumbled in defeat, “I’m not going back to sleep.” But I did! Until Jeff came out of the bathroom in the dark and in order to avoid the site of the cat vomit he knew was there although chose not to acknowledge at 30 minutes past 3:19am, rammed into the wall and yelled out a single word expletive. I had no words. I just laid there in bed and laughed while Jeff limped down the hall.
So, I’m going on with my morning. Doing some work. Getting stuff done on minimal sleep when the phone rang. It was the same number from this morning. This was my chance to tell whoever called at 5:52am that was not cool. I picked up the phone loaded and didn’t let them get a word in edgewise before I hung up, satisfied I had won the battle. Two minutes later, the phone rang again. It was that number! I picked it up and firmly told them, “Take me off your call list!” and hung up. Then the curious part got to me. Who was calling me? I went to my phone and pressed the Caller ID button and got that number. I dialed it on my cell phone and as I was waiting for someone to answer, my phone rang again. It was them! Like a well calculated Civil War battle my flanks had been surrounded. For a brief second I was in shock at this assault but quickly regained my composure when I answered and then immediately slam down the landline phone with the incoming call as my cell phone call was picked up on the other end.
Teleflora? Flowers? What?
I explained to the young lady on the other end there must be a mistake, I have no idea why they would be calling me so much.
Her response? “It is in regards to the promotion …” and as hard as she tried to complete her sentence I shut her down.
“This is a mistake. Just stop calling.”
Because you see, this branch of the Barclay tree doesn’t say I love you with cards and flowers and chocolates.
Satisfied that in the end, I won this tireless battle, I sat back down at my computer and started working again when the phone rang. Again. Teleflora! After four times of going all attack mode on them I thought, I’ve got to kill them with kindness or this is never going to end.
So I answered, with probably a slight hint of defeat in my voice, “Hello.”
The voice on the other side was firm, yet so southern smooth, like the firmness of Hillary Clinton meets Maya Angelo meets Scarlett O’Hara smooth. “Ma’am, my name is Precious, and before you hang up I have a question for you in regards to a flower order.”
Precious. Her name was Precious. Not Kate or Jennifer or Susan. But Precious. Well played, Teleflora. Well played.
“Okay, what do you want?”
“Last week a flower order was made by a Jeff Barclay on your Alaska Airline credit card and we wanted to know what account you wanted those airline points added to.”
My response? “Wait. What? This has to be a mistake. Was our credit card account hacked? Because after 26 years of knowing this man I know he knows me well enough to not give me flowers for Valentines Day.”
Precious. Firm smooth Precious. She reached through the phone with her voice and it was as if she grabbed my hands in hers and locked my eyes with hers and she calmly said, “Oh baby, I hate to ruin the surprise but your man bought you flowers.”
My response? “Damn it, Precious! Does this mean I have to buy him something now?”
Didn’t she get it?
This branch of the Barclay tree doesn’t say I love you with cards and flowers and chocolates. We say I love you by scrubbing cat vomit off the carpet at 3:19am so the other won’t step in it in the morning.
That’s what this branch of the Barclay family tree does.
At least it was.