Yesterday, the three teens, Dayden and I drove over to New Castle to eat lunch and spend the afternoon with Nanny and Poppy (Nanny served a taco casserole for lunch which met with everyone's approval, except for the black olives which several people left on the sides of their plates.) We left their house around 5:00 and set off to drive the boys home, Kieren at the wheel.
Meelyn took over where Kieren left off, and as she was driving me and Aisling home, my cell phone rang. I looked at the number -- it was a 317 area code and I thought it might be my friend Tracy, whose cell phone number I have been too lazy/without enough technical knowledge to program into my address book.
"Hello?" I asked cheerfully.
A female voice inquired, "Is Sandra there?" Whoops! Not Tracy!
"No, I'm sorry," I responded politely, like my mother taught me. "You have the wrong number."
"Oh," the voice said, with ungracious truculence, and then abrutptly terminated the call.
"Who was that?" asked Aisling.
"Wrong number," I said, closing my phone and returning it to my pocket.
About three seconds later, it rang again. I looked at the display and noted that it was the same number as before. I opened my phone and said, "It's still the wrong number, hon, and you're costing me money every time you call me."
I didn't say this meanly, but more in a spirit of slightly amused tolerance. Mostly because phones are bad enough without someone you don't even know calling you multiple times. Really, I was doing this dipwad a service, letting her know that she still had the wrong number; I could have just not answered it and let her think that Sandra was looking at her own Caller ID and laughing a short laugh -- "I don't think so" -- and letting it go to voice mail, which is not set up on my phone. But no, I am always thinking of others, so I spent an extra ten cents to let Miss 317 know that she still didn't have it right. That's the kind of helpful person I am.
Miss 317 didn't receive my largesse in a grateful manner, however. "You don't have to be so effing rude to me, you effing beeyotch," she snarled. Only she didn't say either "effing" or "beeyotch." Wow! Rage issues, much! How about a Valium the size of a basketball, sweetie?
So! Miss 317 hates me and I'm not real crazy about her, so you, dear reader, got a double helping of advice on how to make sure a total stranger hates you: Words o' wisdom for you to cherish.
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