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.