HIPPO BRIGADE

Please Don’t Whistle While You Work

Pat works upstairs. It’s like a little cave up there. He keeps it so cold and dark, and periodically precipitation drips from the stalagmites. Because he is tucked into the far left-quadrant of the house, I think he thinks his office is soundproof. But it’s not. Nope, not even a little bit. The thing of if is, Berlyn’s room is right next door, and when she is sleeping I go a bit nutty with any little noise. So if he takes a phone call, and his voice is too loud, I shush him, with my best librarian impression. He, of course hates this, and becomes deeply offended with my efforts to keep my baby sleeping soundly.

Oh, but then there’s the whistling– the stick bamboo shoots under your fingernails, whistling. I can’t blame my hatred of whistling on my husband, noo, I have reserved that bitter resentment for my brother, Jason. He has whistled ever since he was a wee lad, and I have hated it ever since. I don’t quite know what it is about the noise, but I can’t stand it. I don’t know, you’d think a breathy, high pitched, off key noise would be lovely, but no. It’s not. So, when Pat does it, I want to pluck out my leg hairs, and hand them over to him in a gravy boat.

Me: How do I say, “please close the door or stop whistling” without hurting your feelers?
Pat: Don’t say it at all; then no hurt feelings. Put on your headphones.
Me: But my feelings are hurt, because your whistling pierces me so deeply, I can feel it actually scratching my vena cava
Pat: Headphones, or earmuffs-your choice.
Me: But what about my vena cava?
Pat: It’ll be fine. Mental toughness.
Me: I don’t have any of that. I had it removed along with my unsightly mole.
Pat: Not true