You are afraid of the claw (part 3)

As previously mentioned, Brett loves to scare me when I'm in the shower. I try to get him back, but I'm just not as sneaky, conniving, and weaselly as he is, so I have limited success.

One morning when I woke up, I could hear the shower running in the other bathroom. As I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I realized that this could be the chance I had been waiting for. The dogs were still sleeping and Brett didn't know I was awake. I could scare the crap out of him and he'd never see it coming. My palms started to sweat in anticipation.

Rather than try something fancy like dumping in ice water or surreptitiously turning the faucet to cold, I decided to keep it simple. An eardrum shattering shriek should do nicely. (It's a wonder our neighbors don't call the police sometimes.)

I cleared the morning frogs from my throat and crept down the hallway into the bathroom. I stood on the mat and drew in as deep a breath as I could manage. Then I let loose.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRWWWWWGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!"

From the kitchen, I heard a tiny snicker start. The tiny snicker crescendoed into a booming laugh. "Are you trying to scare me, you crazy platypus? 'Cause if you are, you are in the WRONG ROOM! Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha!"

It's true. I had unleashed my lungs' fury on an empty shower. Brett was in the kitchen having a bite to eat while waiting for the water to get hot.

Score one for Brett, zero for the platypus.

On another day, Brett was out running errands. He told me he would be home soon and I resolved to find the perfect hiding space from which to leap and shriek and prove my superior scaring-skills. How about behind the door to the garage? Naw, he would probably come in the front door. Behind the bed? No, he'd see my big ol' rump in the mirror. Bathroom? Nope, the dogs would give it away. What about the coat closet?

Hmmm.... a promising idea. The closet was jammed full with enough coats and games and blankets that it would be an unlikely hiding spot. Also, I could leave the door open just a crack to watch him approach and spring out at the optimal moment for maximum scariness. Alright. The coat closet it is.

It required some precise measurements and I had to give it several test runs. To avoid suspicion, the door could only be open a tiny crack. And when the moment arrived, I would have to leap out, opening the door, springing forth, and screaming like a banshee, all in one fluid movement.

At last, I heard his car pull in. I squeezed into my hiding spot. There was barely enough room for my feet and I had to semi-squat between a big pile of blankets on the ground and our winter coat collection hanging from the rack above.

The garage door opened. I could hear the dogs going nuts and Brett encouraging them to "jump higher and I'll love you more." I was trembling with excitement as I waited for him to come into view.

I heard the mail keys rattle and the door opened again. "So, he's going out getting the mail," I gloated. "All the better. He'll walk right past me to take the mail to his office. He's toast." I waited, ready to strike.

I waited. And waited. And waited. I could hear faint voices outside. He was talking with our neighbor at the mailbox. The ringing of his cellphone finally brought him inside again. He answered it and began pacing around the living room. I thought that the effect I was trying to achieve might be spoiled if I interrupted his important business call, so I resolved to wait in the darkness for as long as it would take.

It took a LOOOONG time. He finished, snapped his phone shut and went back outside to shut the garage door. Just when I thought I could bear it no longer, he approached, lighthearted and carefree, never dreaming that he was about to get the fright of his life.

Like a coiled snake I burst from my hiding place. Or rather, I intended to burst forth. The semi-squat to which I had subjected my doughy legs for the preceding 15 minutes had turned into a crippling lactic acid burn in my thighs and massive charlie-horses in my calves. I tumbled from the closet and landed in a heap on the floor at his feet.

"Rrrawr..." I managed weakly. I thrust my claw toward his kneecap for added effect.

"What the heck are you doing? Were you trying to scare me? Aww.... that's cute. You are a cute platypus," he said, patting my head condescendingly.

Brett's score, two. Andrea, still zero. I should give myself minus points for that failure.

But I never learn. I thought I'd give my scaring-skills another workout one evening when Brett was showering after mowing and edging the lawn. He had looked exhausted and filthy when he'd come in and I hoped he be off his guard.

I put the dogs outside and waited outside the bathroom door, listening. I heard normal shower sounds, so I was pretty sure he was in there, but this time I wasn't taking any chances. I inched the door open and peered inside with my eyes right up to the crack.

Suddenly, a geyser of freezing cold water shot directly into my face. I spluttered for air and heard manical laughter echoing off the bathroom walls.

He'd been waiting for me to try something. And he didn't just spray me with the showerhead. He had actually removed the nozzle so he could point the hose directly at my face for maximum saturation. I retreated. I was beat.

Later that night, I bemoaned my fate to him. "It's not fair! You scare me every single day and I never get you! Ever! I'm so depressed."

"Awww... isn't that just too bad?" he snarked. "Just keep practicing and maybe someday you'll be a master, like me." He got up to get a soda.

"Will you bring me a glass of water while you're up?" I asked mournfully.

"Sure. It's the least I can do for such a pitiful little platypus."

A moment later, there was a yelp and a crash. "Why you little..." he cried as he came around the corner, his face and shirt dripping wet.

"Gee honey, you're all wet. How did that happen? It almost looks like someone put a rubber band around the faucet sprayer nozzle while you were in the shower and angled the nozzle just so that whoever used the faucet next would get sprayed in the face. What kind of pitiful little platypus would do such a thing?"

Score: Brett, 2. Andrea, 1. You'd better believe I'm catchin' up.