I just discovered our friend Fred is here in our house. How do I know this? I just popped onto Facebook and saw his status as "at Trout Towers recording with Chandler." It's kind of funny, finding out who's in your house by checking Facebook. What has our world come to?
Oh wait, my upstairs neighbor just noted her surprise, on Facebook, that Fred is here. And then Fred responded to us both (again on facebook), because apparently things aren't so thrilling in studioland and he's glued to his phone. I suppose the three of us could talk in person, or tap morse code on the ceilings and floors. But we don't have to, thanks to Facebook.
I could have seen his car as I drove up to the house, but my head was elsewhere. A friend left a plastic-wrapped brownie on my front seat and I have been obsessed with getting the kids fed, pajama-ed and tucked in bed so I can eat it in peace and privacy. Without locking myself in the bathroom.
Chandler just came through and said hello. I like it when Chandler says hi because he calls me Mrs. Crusher. This is not in reference to my girth. It is in reference to that time Chris was playing some ridiculous online shooter game and gave himself the moniker "Crusher." Anyone who has met Chris will appreciate the ludicrousocity of the name. Spell check doesn't have a problem with ludicrousocity, so it must be a word. Anyway, I sent an email out to a few of Chris' friends, telling them that he would like to be known as Crusher and to please address him as such. Chandler's good at stuff like that. And I do love being Mrs. Crusher. In fact, I would change my profile name to Mrs. Crusher if people weren't likely to think of it as a reference to my girth. I have an image to uphold here, people.
I am a trophy wife, and Trout Towers is so palatial we require a global network to connect us. (Sorry, Fred & Liz, not sharing the brownie).