For the last four days, Keith has been out of town at a work-related conference.
You know, playing golf and laughing about secret handshakes and all.
Which of course means I’ve been home alone.
Burglar bait.
No really, I’m that paranoid.
On one of my first days home alone, “a man selling satellite TV” came to our door.
Salesman: You sign for sat-lite teevee, you have free for life.
Eby: Oh how nice. We don’t even have a TV, though. But thank you!
Salesman: Ah! You have intra-net?
Eby: Yup, thank you!
Salesman: How much you pay per month?
Eby: Oh, you know, I’m not even sure. My husband took care of all that. So…
Salesman: OK! He here?
Eby: Oh. Uh. He’s…at work! He’ll be here later. Three days from now.
Salesman: Ok! I come back tonight to talk with him. Bye-bye!
Darn! I had played right into his plan. If he found out I was home alone on his return visit, it was all over.
Burglar bait.
But I had a plan. Once it was dark, I set up a podcast in the next room. Thanks to the totally natural sounding Tim and Wendy and their foster parent podcast, it sounded like I had real people in my home office; perfectly muffled by a partially closed door. I placed some of Keith’s big manly shoes in the foyer, and had every single light on in the house.
Take that bad guys.
I was channeling Macaulay Culkin, Home Alone.
Minus the aftershave.
My plan was to whisk open the door, quickly insist I had talked with my husband (who was in the shower) and that we weren’t interested in any upgrades. Ok. Toodles!
But he never came back.
I guess he really was a salesman.
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