They’re invisible, but I know they’re there.

I’m not sure how or when they were installed, but there are hidden pressure sensors under every toilet seat in the house, as well as on my office chair.  It’s the only possible explanation.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve just nicely settled myself on the throne when the phone rings.  In fact, it happens so frequently that it’s a standing (sorry, couldn’t resist) joke with one of my friends.  She calls; I’m in the bathroom.

Every.  Single.  Time.

This makes it sound as though a) I have continence problems and therefore spend a considerable amount of time ensconced in the holy of holies; or b) she phones me far too often.

Neither is true.  I won’t lower myself (sorry again) to discussing my bathroom habits here, other than to say:  normal.  And it’s rare for her to phone me more than once a week.

So I’m convinced that she somehow knows when I’m in the john.

It’s far too creepy to consider that she might actually be the culprit responsible for the butt sensors, so I prefer to believe they were installed by some advanced alien race that is capable of invisibility and possesses both the technology to broadcast telepathic signals of unlimited range, and the malevolence to torture me by broadcasting “Phone Diane” every time I shit… er, sit.

And the bastards didn’t stop with the toilet seats, either.

The sensor on my office chair is an extremely specialized model; probably some advanced prototype they’re developing exclusively for sales to telemarketers, politicians, and meddling relatives.

It doesn’t just register pressure and react the way the toilet-seat model does.  No, this one is far more diabolical.

It also taps into my brainwaves.

It doesn’t react when I’m doing something boring and tedious and I’d love to be interrupted.  Oh, hell no.  I can spend all bloody day writing computer training workbooks with nary a peep, but within ten seconds of achieving the zen-like bliss of uninterrupted writing … I’ll be interrupted.

It’s obviously programmed with a complicated algorithm that constantly sifts through the detritus of my mind, measuring my exact degree of concentration and commitment to the task at hand.  When I achieve some critical pre-determined level, the butt sensor psychically broadcasts “Interrupt Diane using any method necessary, immediately”.

Phone calls are easiest, but in a pinch they’ll induce Hubby to choose that exact moment to ask a not-very-important but time-consuming question.  Or the courier will show up with delivery that needs a signature.  A sudden loud noise and/or cry of distress from somewhere in the house is always a winner.  Or there’s the tried-and-true method of having somebody crash into my parked
half-ton and ring the doorbell to report the accident.

That may sound far-fetched, but don’t laugh – it’s happened five times.  I don’t know how anyone can fail to see a big red truck in their rear-view mirror, so the aliens must make my truck momentarily invisible, too.

I guess it could be worse.  In the big picture, interruptions are only an annoyance.  At least the aliens don’t seem interested in my body cavities.

Unless there’s something about those butt sensors that I really don’t want to know about…