Special to The Sun
Life is good. I’m clipping it off at a sustainable pace, head up, shoulders back and a glint in my eye. It’s one of those days when my cup’s more than half full and all’s right with my world. At home there’s a book I’m eager to get back to. The weather is fine and the patio chaise lounge is big enough to hold me and my book and my silky-eared little dog if she doesn’t wiggle too much, so that’s where I’m headed.
Grocery unloading and storing away goes more smoothly than it sometimes does, and steamy coffee drips steadily into my cup awaiting a dash of the Hazelnut cream I’ve come to prefer. Then it’s treats for the speckled pup and I’m on my way with book in one hand and cup in the other, hipping my way through the storm door opening onto the patio, my eye on my destination when the phone rings.
I let the door slam shut, set my book and cup on the kitchen table and catch it on the fourth ring. “Yes, I’ll leave a box of something useable or saleable on the front porch before 8 a.m. next Tuesday,” and glad to do it. By now my coffee is lukewarm so I nuke it, then back to fulfill my original intention, but with an Afghan added to my carryout. The temp might have dropped just a hair but life is still good.
Dog has settled into her spot between my knees, I’ve made it through maybe six pages of the best book I’ve ever read, and my coffee is mostly dregs when the phone rings again. Off with the dog and the Afghan, my book face down on the side table and my cup in hand for refilling when I trip on the throw rug but regain my balance and reach the phone in time to see “800 Service” in the caller ID window before it clicks off. I return to my book carrying the phone with me. Let those 800 solicitors phone again. I’m primed to tell the next one to get a real job, one where interruptions are tolerated.
I had straightened the Afghan, plopped pup back on top and opened my book when the doorbell rang. Ignore it, was my first thought, but it rang again and again — all eight booming notes for a total of 24 nerve-wracking bongs. I’d had enough! Life stopped being good when the Girl Scout fled my front porch in tears scattering boxes of cookies helter-skelter down the driveway.
Life probably will be good again by tomorrow, but don’t look for a spring in my step. I’ll be walking into walls to avoid brushing shoulders with the guiltless, who patiently endure telemarketers and whose pantries are chock-full of Girl Scout cookies.
MARJORIE ANDERSON is an Edmond resident.