August, 2013

Is That N like November? No, N like Nancy.

Like most small kids, Lexi loves to be of help around the house. Sometimes it's more of a hindrance than a help, but we're big cheerleaders of helping Mom and Dad (and Grandma, of course). She's aces at measuring ingredients and scooping cookie dough onto parchment, loves to reorganize things (sometimes in a system that makes sense only to her) and will help Mother brush the dogs until they're at risk of baldness. (Throw in the incentive of money and she'll do darn near anything.)

Thus it was that I was up to my eyebrows in bread dough and Lexi was carefully shaking in more flour. The phone rang (of course; sticky hands are as good as being in the loo to make the phone ring or the doorbell chime) and I let loose with a string of printable (and creative) cuss words. Lexi yelled, "I'ww get it!" dropped her measuring cup on the bread board (resulting in a minor snowstorm) and pelted down the hall toward the desk phone in Ducky's office. Two more rings, then silence. I grabbed the flour and kept kneading.

After a good seven or eight minutes, when I was trying to shape the dough into something like a couple of braids, Lexi scrambled back into the kitchen. (Comparing world cultures via bread. Don't ask me, I just do what the teachers ask, so I'm making challah on a Tuesday night.) "Who was it?"

"Dr. Davis." She puffed out her chest in pride. "I wrote it on a pink for Daddy!"

One of the 'while you were out' pads. "Excellent. Now, wash your hands and you may sprinkle sesame seeds on top."

By the time Ducky got home, the scent of baking bread filled the kitchen. It smelled marvelous. "Yes, I made a loaf for us," I said before he had a chance to ask. "I'm going to turn it into garlic bread to go with the lasagna." He beamed his approval. "And your social secretary left a message on your desk." I tipped my head toward Lexi, who was under the breakfast table playing with several dolls. I wasn't sure, but it sounded like she was in the middle of hostage negotiations.

Ducky nodded and headed toward his office. I heard the faint jingle on the kitchen extension that meant someone else was dialing out. I went back to impaling veggies onto skewers to roast in the broiler. He was back a few minutes later, message in hand and a strangled look on his face. He silently held out he pink paper.

"What's wrong? Can't read her printing?"

"No… Just—read it."

The front of the paper had "time" filled out in lopsided but readable numbers; she had carefully put the military time of the call, 1601 (Uncle Jethro's contribution to her education), noted the "to" section as "Daddy" and on the "from" space put a arrow. I turned it over and saw that the whole back was filled with:

D LIKE DOG
A LIKE APPLE
V LIKE VIOLINNE
S LIKE SUN

"I'm sure Joshua told her to be very careful in writing things down."

"And she was," I said, a tad defensively.

"No argument from this quarter."

"Hey—" I waved the note in front of his nose. "Just be glad Dr. Krishnakumar Senevirathne didn't call."

I work in the customer service department of a Fortune 500 company. We use the military phonetic alphabet to clarify spelling. When my "Is that N like November?" was answered with "No, N like Nancy," I had no answer beyond "Okay, then." I guess it's like the people sitting at the intersection when the like changes because they're waiting for the right shade of green.