One of those days, spilled coffee and the bathroom drain clogged and she's wrestling with the vacuum cleaner bag when the phone rings. It's the Governor; she recognizes his voice, and when he pauses she begins to reply, then realizes that it's an automated message and bangs the receiver down. The cleaner bag bursts and releases a storm of dust and dog hair, which sticks to her sweat soaked face and neck and the phone rings again. This time she listens before saying hello and hears ringing and voices in the background, a boiler room operation drumming up business or donations and she hangs up while congratulating herself on dodging that particular bullet. She stands with hands on hips, wondering how one cleans up a mess from a vacuum cleaner without said cleaner, the phone rings yet again and she doesn't answer it so much as wring its plastic neck, gripping the receiver like a vise and wincing as it strikes her ear. A husky male voice says
"Hey babe what are you wearing..."
...and it's too much, she smashes the phone on the kitchen counter, over and over, the slime ball, the pervert, as if it weren't enough that she was tired and angry and dirty and sweaty, now she feels her stomach balling up with fear and the call can't be traced anyway now that she's killed the messenger. The calendar on the wall is askew and as she carefully straightens it by matching it to its clean shadow, she sees that tonight is her husband's office party and she should be getting ready. It's the last straw, she pours herself a drink and walks into the living room to properly prepare herself.
He walks in at six o'clock and she lights into him before he can take his coat off, not just haranguing him for forgetting to remind her of the party but carefully listing everything he has ever done in their twelve years of marriage that angered or irritated her.
It's a very long list.
He clears his throat several times. He has a cold.
"I tried to call you earlier. I wanted to know what you were wearing..."