Most of us have told that horrible old joke, "When is a door not a door? When it's ajar!" at some point. I would like to propose a new answer, that which titles today's blog post. Make sense? Of course it doesn't, not yet. This is my family we're talking about. It might, however, make a bit more sense once you have some background.
My sister, theater geek that she is, likes accents. She will often become the Latvian Lady in the course of everyday conversation, just for kicks and giggles. The Latvian Lady has informed us that she cannot be expected to close doors, because she does not understand them. In Latvia, you see, people are too poor to have doors. Also, my youngest brother (going on 17), ever since his voice changed, sounds a great deal like my dad on the phone.
With those factors established, here is more or less the transcript of a phone call I made to my parents' landline on Saturday night:
Male voice: Hello?
Me: [Brother]? Is that you?
MV: No. It's a door.
Me: Oh, hello Mr. Door. Are you all alone there in the house?
MV: Yes. The older two doors have gone out.
Roommate (overhearing): You're talking to a door? He must not be from Latvia.
Me: So I guess you're not from Latvia, then, Mr. Door.
MV (switches instantly into a Dracula-esque accent): No. I am from Latvia.
Me: But Latvian doors don't exist! So I'm talking to something that doesn't exist?
Roommate: You do that all the time anyway.
Me: Oh, wait, I get it. You're a Latvian-American door. That's why there are no doors in Latvia, because they all came to America.
MV (still in bad accent): Yes. That is correct. Do you have a message for the older doors?
Me: Just tell the maternal door that her new cell phone doesn't have its voicemail box set up yet.
MV: I will do that. And now I go to dance with pineapple.
Me: Have a good time with that. Night-night, Mr. Latvian Door.
I hung up the phone and laughed for a good minute. Once I got enough breath back to explain to the roommate the Latvian door's parting remark, she demanded proof. So I sent the brother a Facebook message: "Pics or it didn't happen." About an hour later, this is what I got back:
For anyone wondering where all the crazy families in my stories come from... wonder no more. Thanks for reading, all, and see you on Why Do I Work Here Wednesday! (Remember that comments are moderated and will be approved as soon as I am able. And if you can't read the sign on the door in the photo, it says "Property of Latvia". Of course.)