A block later I saw my little blue house. Like I said, not much, but mine. The only thing I didn’t like about the place—other than the neighborhood pack of kids and dogs, that is—was my own fault. Whenever I came home, it was the same old story—pull partway in, get out to unlock and open the gate, get back into the car, pull the rest of the way in, get out to shut and lock the gate. Add opening the garage door and parking, and the whole thing’s a trial, but it keeps the roving missionaries out of my yard when I’m home and deters the burglars when I’m not.
Throwing my duffle-purse onto the kitchen table, I was only thinking about hitting my bed, or barring that, the sofa. My eyes had other ideas. The damn message light was blinking on my machine again. I thought about ignoring it, but I knew I’d just lay in bed until I heard who called. Curiosity doesn’t kill this cat, unless you count being dead-tired.
Sighing my frustration at my own anal-retentiveness, I pressed the button.
“Hi. I’d like to talk to someone about ordering wedding favors. If you could call me back with a price on about one-hundred packets in mauve, I’d really appreciate…” I hit delete before I heard the rest. My phonebook listing says ‘Almond, J.’ and it’s only listed in the residential part, so I can never understand how stupid someone has to be to call me about nuts, but I get at least a half-dozen calls like that a month. I never call them back, and usually they buy a clue. Every once in a while I get an irate bitch who calls screaming to talk to my manager. I give those people the number to my ‘world headquarters’—1-800-BITEME.
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