“Mom. Your phone is ringing.”
“No caller ID.”
“Just answer the phone!”
“Hello, is that Victoria?”
“Hi, your good friend Judith (not her real name) would like to try our range of incredible cosmetics.”
“I don’t know a Judith.”
Actually, I do. I once upon a time worked in a company with a Judith. We might exchange passable good morning grunts as we passed on our way to get coffee in the morning. Good friends we were not.
Good friends know better than to give out my phone number. The access code to Fort Knox is easier to get than my phone number. Well, I thought it was.
Turns out Judith thinks nothing of giving out every number on the company phone list in order to get a free bottle of perfume.
Anyway, I took the free cosmetics. I took them because I am a sucker for free stuff. They are actually pretty good and they are delivered to my door and I like that.
Regardless, I cannot forgive her for cavalierly giving out my phone number. It is an invasion of an anti-social introvert’s personal space.
Like the Jehovah’s Witnesses who bang on my gate every single Sunday without fail. I respect that they have found their path to God. I have found mine too. It isn’t the same one.
The only thing we have in common is that Sundays are sacrosanct. In other words, do not under any circumstances invade my space on a Sunday.
I tried being nice. I tried explaining my point of view. It was a lovely metaphor, by the way, of a house on a hill with a hundred different paths leading to it.
I tried taking the pamphlet. Then I read it. It was all about how a wife should obey her husband.
So, the next time, I set my husband on them. With Leviticus.
That did the trick. We had a lovely peaceful Sunday for the first time in years. Long may it continue.