Party at the Front Range

I have been with trapped at work with the Muggles this week and not using my magic has been sheer drudgery. On the positive side, my job has been going very well indeed, and the long hours I have put in are paying off. I am being sent to Denver the week of August 13 to train employees for a new call center. My boss’s boss says two weeks out, two weeks back, then two more weeks at the end of September. I don’t mind living in luxury hotels on an expense account too much, but of course it will be lonely. More good news, my boss will not be going. In fact, he is in a bit of trouble for a number of uh, communication problems. I won’t go into the juicy details. Let’s just say his chickens are coming home to roost.

Our rich relatives live in Denver, and during my husband’s weekly obligatory call to his father and step mother, he found himself in a frantic effort to change the topic of conversation. I fully understand the feeling of panic when Margaret gets wound up describing the pain of her fibromyalgia, complaining about the staff at the assisted living home, or telling amusing incontinence stories.

“Elaine’s going to Denver,” he blurts out in her microsecond pause between describing the salve for Pop’s sores and what all the top doctor’s in the region agree is the worst bunion they have ever seen. Since she is deaf as a post, conversations with her are never conducted in private. I heard him yelling into the phone even though I am in the next room,

“DENVER…NO, DENVER.(long pause) YES -SHE -WILL -CALL -CAROL -WHILE -SHE’S- THERE.” The last sentence is repeated several times at increasing volume and with various spacing. I came into the living room to find him off the phone with a look of horror on his face.

“She told me I had to come visit them while you’re gone” he groaned.

“Tell her that your wife would not dream of letting you come alone,” I replied.

“I don’t think my soul could stand that much of a blot,” he deadpans.

“So, why don’t you fly out and join me in Denver over the weekend,” I suggested.

“Give me the dates for the trip,” he responds, reaching for the laptop.

I add dancing shoes to my mental list of things I need to pack.