I am home as, for the first time EVER, real pros clean my house. If that's not the best Christmas present I've ever received, I don't know what is. (I know it is decidedly NOT the lame-ass talking doll I got when I was 7 that the annoying, pissy Michelle up the street broke the first day, much to my dual chagrin/pleasure.)
In addition to a wave of sliding-glass-door-smash-and-steal burglaries plaguing my little neck of the wilds o' suburbia, it's the time for rat bastards to follow UPS and Fedex and On Trac and USPS trucks, scooters and drones around and steal packages left in the fuckin' Christmas spirit, for Baby Jesus's sake, on people's front porches. In fact, the totally cool and happenin' app for those born pre-1990 -- Next Door -- is filled with reports of even the freakin' license plates of the fuckers following, Grinch like, behind our for-profit and quasi-governmental Santa stand-ins.
All of which sets the stage for when I hear -- and then ignore -- what I think is a knock at the front door. I meander several moments later in time to see a UPS truck drive away. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. There goes a very slow brown sedan following that UPS truck up the street.
Away to my car, I flew like a flash.
And I followed that slow-moving car and passed it as a woman about my age got out to help an elderly woman out of the passenger seat. And I passed the UPS truck as it came back down the hill, having thrown a U-turn. And I threw my own U-turn at the top of the hill. And I passed by the two women making their way to the home they were visiting. And I passed by the newly parked UPS truck.
The UPS driver? Sitting in the driver's seat watching me slowly pass by to return, unbeknownst to him, sheepishly to my own driveway.
I need to check Next Door to see if my car and license plate are now reported as suspect.
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