We had a repairman out today to check a possible problem with our heater. After a lot of checking, traipsing in and out, and a $70 service fee, it was determined that it just needs a good cleaning.
Seriously. I had to pay $70 to find out that I am bad at keeping my furnace cleaning appointments.
Anyway, the guy was nice. And he was also young. He looked about 13 and I'd be willing to bet that service fee that he is fresh out of HVAC school.
He showed up right around 5:30, which is a dicey time here. We're usually still in WHM - Witching Hour Mode - while I am trying to finish cooking and get everything on the table before my people perish because they are sooooo hungry. (Then they sit down and promptly declare that they don't like any part of dinner. So obviously not that hungry.)
Sometimes I wonder what people think when they walk into our house. Especially people who know nothing about us. Do they feel like they've accidentally wandered into the asylum?
Because the first thing he saw was these two:
Doesn't everyone wander around in a full length hooded cape?
Mopsy immediately introduced herself as "Little Red Neighborhood," and Baby just stared at him unnervingly.
Then he went downstairs and found three more kids, playing diner. Chef Sally was dressed in an eclectic combination of scarves and a bathrobe tied at the arms around her waist, serving cheese and sardines. Speaking fake French.
While he was looking at the heater, another kid came downstairs and half of them started singing the SpongeBob theme song. Loudly. Right by the door to the furnace room.
By the time the repairman was finished, everyone was at the table for dinner. He came up to fill out the work ticket, and that's when he noticed Septimus in the highchair.
Since our dinner table generally resembles something you might find at a Renaissance Fair, I could see his eyes wander over and he began the mental countdown. I knew what was coming.
"Wow, you guys are sure busy."
Oh, you have no idea.
While he was here, the technician asked to use our powder room, and I half-jokingly apologized for anything he might find in there.
When I went in there after he left, I saw what he saw. A pair of little underpants on the back of the toilet tank, a nightlight that looked like it had been practically punched out of the socket, a slice of fake bread and a fake chicken leg left on the sink, and, probably the most horrifying to strangers, little brown fingerprints on the light's switchplate.
It was from the chocolates the girls ate, but not everyone knows that. Sorry, dude.