The Damn Phone

That's what it is called it this household.  The Damn Phone.

When it rings, I ask, "Who's on The Damn Phone?'  Or, "Who's calling on The Damn Phone this time of night?"

For the love of Pete, I detest The Damn Phone.

People call you up on it to talk you into doing things you don't want to do.  Sometimes it's an out-of-towner wanting to drop off their child so they can get themselves a little afternoon delight.  Or a solicitor wanting some money.  Or gangs of solicitors wanting all of my money and then some.  How about a little (or a lot) of volunteering.  Or calls that begin with, "I hope you don't mind, but . . ."

And, of course, the worst.  Someone has died.

This morning, I have a lot to do.  A LOT TO DO.  I've got to clean my house out for the renters, and what the hell, I just better get it done before my mother-in-law arrives on the 21st.  That's a long way away you say? But I also have to pack and plan for the movers on the 18th.  But I can't turn on the vacuum until people return calls that I made earlier this morning.  I have important questions for the head of the school that my daughter will be attending in Charleston.  I have to know if the plumber is going to replace my kitchen faucet so the renters don't get flooded out the first moment they need a glass of water.

I hate it when I get my info. together and dial out on The Damn Phone, only to discover I've got to sit by The Damn Phone and wait to actually talk to a real person.  I usually make my husband dial out, but since he's on the road, I have to do it.

So that's it.  Just a little bit of bitching.  But inside I'm seething.  I have important shit to do.  And I better not find out that these folks I'm waiting on are just standing next to the coffee maker waiting to get themselves a cup.  Maybe they are just avoiding The Damn Phone.