Why My Brother Moved To Southern California, Reason MCLXIV

Scene I:
A typical chaotic weekday evening in the Aimless household. The kids want to listen to ABBA Gold and dance around the living room, and I am attemting to grab their squrmy bodies as they dash past so I can plop them in their seats for dinner. Meanwhile, Chef is cutting the hamburger patties into bite-sized pieces with a little side of ketchup for the all-important dipping ritual. In the midst of all this, the phone rings, and naturally we let the machine pick up:

Hello, Aimless? This is Bob, from synagogue. I was wondering if you wanted to serve on a planning committee for the Rabbi's retirement party. Please call me back when you have a moment.

Scene II:
Ten minutes later, the kids are up to their elbows in ketchup, are tired of sitting and can no longer contain their energy. Chef and I are frantically scrubbing them down with wet wipes before they inadvertantly finger-paint the furniture. Into this scene, the phone intrudes again:

Hello Aimless? This is Bob again. I just called your mom to find out where you are. She says you and Chef are home feeding your kids hamburgers for dinner. So why aren't you picking up the phone?

Sigh. . . I am thirty-six years old. THIRTY-SIX YEARS OLD, people! And I am STILL being busted by my mom.