distraught homeowner . . .

or just plain lunatic. A couple of weeks ago, I got a phone call from a woman looking for Tabitha. I told her that I was sorry but she had the wrong number. She thanked me, apologized and hung up. It was then that I noticed the answering machine light was blinking with a message from earlier in the day while I was out. So I play the message and it is the same woman trying to locate Tabitha, who it turns out is her housekeeper who failed to show up for work the morning before and she wants to know when she is coming back.

Later that afternoon, she calls again . . . I let the answering machine get it. This time she is irate. "Your last name", she says, "is very unusual, as is ours. There are only two names like yours in the phone book and Tabitha has the key to my house and I want it back." Being the kind soul that I am (snort), I call her back and explain that there is no Tabitha at this number and apologize for her distress.

Now almost three week later, I wake up totally zonked from a delightful afternoon snooze to the ranting of this woman leaving a message on my answering machine to the effect that she knows Tabitha lives here, and she has her house key and she wants it back. She has called the police and the police advised her to call me back. EEK! So when Frank comes home from the gym I ask him to call Miss Hysterical and tell her we are not hiding Tabitha in the closet. He speaks with her and assures her that no one by that name lives here. Then I hear him say, "No, really!" Long story short, when the police show up at our door, I'm letting Frank handle it. I will be too busy hustling dear Tabby out the back door. Hee hee hee.