Glad I'm a Southerner

My Internet friend has been busy again, sending all her humorous thoughts and philosophical thinking to her family, friends and mere acquaintances around the world. So my philosophical thinking is that if I have to suffer through them, then everybody else does too. Welcome to Nancy’s World.

Well, actually, the following, known as How to Know You Are a Southerner, fits me to a T. I was born a Yankee, in Ohio, but I have southern roots since Mom was Kentucky-born and reared. And now that I have live for 35 years south of the Ohio River, I think I’ve adjusted to Southern ways. Perhaps the following will also explain my change to being a Southerner.

Things I’ve Learned Living in the South

*Nancy: A possum is a flat animal that lives in the middle of the road. Me: Or is digging up my brand new flower bed, and hisses at me when I try to run it off, causing me to flee back into the house!

*Nancy: There are 5,000 kinds of snakes and 4,998 of them live in the south. Me: And my backyard, but I’ve got good at killing snakes. You gotta’ down here.

*Nancy: There are 10,000 kinds of spiders and they all live in the south, plus a couple never seen before. Me: Want to see me run screaming like a girl? Show me a spider. I will brag just a bit. When one showed up in the living room last week, I got on top the couch, armed with a flip flop (what else, this is the south!), and threw it at spider intruder. One pitch-Dead spider! I am so proud.

*Nancy: If it grows, it will stick you. If it crawls, it will bite you. Me: I love cutting down those little sticky- burr plants that grow in the lawn, and, please remember, that spider’s not gonna’ bite anybody. Ha!

*Nancy:  Onced and twiced are words. Me:  Huh?

*Nancy: People actually grow, eat and like okra. Me: Another confession; in my first year in the South, couldn’t figure out why anyone would eat slimy okra. I remembered that thought recently when filling my plate with fried okra at a local restaurant’s food bar. Yummy!

*Nancy:  Iced tea is appropriate for all meals, and people start drinking it at the age of two. We do like a little tea with our sugar. It is referred to as the Wine of the South. Me: Darn tootin. But, alas, I have not yet achieved the art of making Southern tea, and I’ve TRIED! Maybe Nancy will take me to the kitchen and show me how it is done.

*Nancy: Backwards and forwards mean I know everything about you. Me: Sittin’ around drinking Southern tea makes us tell all our family secrets. Remember hiding behind a door as a child so we could hear our adults talk about the family secrets? I loved doing that!

*Nancy:  You carry jumper cables in your pickup, for your OWN pickup. Me: How did Nancy know that? Oh yeah. She’s a Southerner.

*Nancy:  You know what a hissy fit is. Me: I used that very word on a phone call just today! I like that word. It’s very expressive.

*Nancy: The first day of deer season is a national holiday. Me: I thought everyone knew that.

*Nancy:  Everyone you meet calls you Honey, Sugar, or Miss (name) or Mr. (name). Me:  The first time someone called me Miss Sally, I was a bit taken aback. What? Then I realized it as what it is. A term of respect for the older generation in the South. You can call me Miss Sally anytime you want to!

*Nancy:  Ya’ll is singular. All ya’ll is plural. Me:  Several years ago I heard myself saying, “Ya’ll.” At last, I’m a Southerner, and darn proud of it.

*Nancy:  You understand these jokes and forward them to all your Southern friends and those who just wish they were from the South. Me:  DONE! And thank you Miss Nancy.

The Not-so-Successful Shopping Trip

At first I wanted to call our little half-day journey “D and Sam’s Not So Excellent Adventure” reminiscent of the movie “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.” But then I got on the internet to find the movie “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.” Not what I was hoping for at all. I’ve never seen that movie about Bill and Ted, and found out the movie is old, really old. Not quite as old as me, but pretty old nevertheless. The movie is what I call a teenage boy flick. . .nonsensical with lots of double entendre. Teenage boys seem to love that. Chick flicks are for the ladies of course, and blow-em-up and beat-em-up movies seem to appeal to the guys.

Perhaps I need “Thelma and Louise” as a guide. Oops. I have seen that movie, and I didn’t particularly like the ending. No, it was just me and D, trying to get some of those dog-gone chores out of the way, so it was D (nickname for founding Lunch Bunch member Delanna N.) and Sam (that’s me, who came up with the Lunch Bunch moniker in a fleeting moment of madness).

So off we went, with D driving, because she has a big car I have a small pickup. And that means, if shopping is to take place, Lunch Bunch members may need a large bus or semi-truck, because we do like to shop.

But first, there were those chores. D had to visit a federal government office to deliver some papers. I don’t like federal government offices. Those people scare me. They do mean things, like audit your taxes. Eek. And that’s why I take taxes to a professional, and why I stayed in the car. And D wasn’t all that happy either. She complained, “Those were the WRONG papers! I gotta come back.”

Then it was on to a hobby store, so we could both finish projects. I seem to have started a lot of crafting projects in my semi-retirement. But hey, it was a hobby store, and the yarn was on sale. Has anyone visited a hobby store lately? Has anyone noticed that the Christmas stuff is everywhere?!? ‘Isn’t it too early?’ I wondered. Not for crafters it isn’t. And what the heck, I needed another project. . .not really, but, hey, the yarn was on sale. “And so the Christmas crafts begin,” I told the sales clerk. She just laughed at me. D just called. Seems she bought the wrong stuff, so we scheduled ANOTHER trip to the craft and hobby store. I repeat to self, “I DO NOT need another project, DO NOT, DO NOT, DO NOT!’ Oh please don’t let the yarn be on sale. Oops. It is.

Back on the road, the next stop was at a mall retailer, where, I was told, kitchen knives were on sale. Has anyone ever noticed how your best cutlery, and spoons for some reason, disappear like magic when all the kids and their kids and their kids come home for the holidays? I need kitchen knives. At the moment, all I own is one teeny paring knife, and here come the holidays! EEK! I searched for what seemed like hours (five minutes). Couldn’t find those knives. I searched for what seemed like hours (maybe 10 minutes) for a store clerk. Finally tackled one. She had no idea what I was talking about, and couldn’t find those knives either. She tackled a manager. “We’re all sold out,” she announced. Oh no! “But I can order you some for the same price!” Yes! I happily followed manager to a desk where she searched for hours (eh, 15 minutes). And then she announced, “They are no longer available.” NO-o-o! Yep. Back to my one and only paring knife. Now, if I could just find D. She had disappeared. After one long wait (maybe 30 minutes), D arrived and we proceeded on to the next store. By this time, I was losing any hope for any chore that I had to get done. And it didn’t end there.

D wanted lunch, and she really wanted to treat me to that new steak house. When it was obvious that no vehicles of any type were in the restaurant’s parking lot, I became a bit concerned. And when we got to the door, which didn’t open, I pointed out the restaurant’s hours to D. They didn’t open til 4 p.m. Good grief. What was a hungry shopper to do?

We went on to the next restaurant, a really close restaurant because we were hungry. It was the perfect ending to a not-so-successful trip. We got a newbie for a waiter. Waited an hour (or maybe two) for a bowl of soup for me and a salad for D. You know the good thing about Lunch Bunch members? We can laugh. We can laugh out loud at shopping trips and other obstacles and challenges. So the day didn’t end badly at all. D and I laughed a lot, and are going shopping again this week. I’m not even going to try to find knives. But I will eat!

Critters Behaving Badly, or at Least Mine Do!

All critter owners, and those who just like to observe, are acquainted with badly behaving critters. Who hasn’t had a dog that will eat all its owner’s socks, or the couch, or the house plants? Who hasn’t had a horse, or cow, or pig who knew how to escape, and had to be wildly chased and returned home?

But why are mine being so obnoxious this year? We’ll start with the wild critters.

First, there’s the deer, who are eating all the pears off my beautiful, old pear tree. If I go out to confront them, those doe diners simply stomp their feet, snort, and apparently dare me to do anything about their thievery. I turn tail and go back to the house.

Then there’s the mysterious night raider who is eating all Darling Daughter’s horse feed. This must be a wily one, because feed is in metal garbage can with tight-fitting lid. Darling Daughter has tried numerous deterrents, such as piling rocks on top of lid. But it didn’t work. That mischievous midnight raider (we’ve never seen it) just pushed the rocks off, lifted lid and dug in again. Darling Daughter told me this week that she wired the lid shut with old bailing wire. We’re on watch now, and hope the rascal can’t figure out wired-tight lids. If it does, I’m never going out there again. I think it’s the squirrels. I’ve seen them hanging out. Daughter said squirrels are not smart enough. She thinks its raccoons. But if this keeps up, I’m blaming Big Foot. Whatever it is, it’s eating well.

Then there’s my crow family. First found them hanging out when I decided leftovers shouldn’t go in the garbage, they should be composting in my future flower bed. Crows decided to dig in and feast on the leftovers. I didn’t mind. I love watching them, and happy to report that the three that visited the first time have become seven, meaning mom and pop raised a few more this summer. But one day when enjoying my semi-retirement on the back porch, my crow family started squawking loudly, very loudly. Since bird watching has become one of my new semi-retirement hobbies, I decided to just sit, observe, and discover the problem. The problem was one of the stray cats that have suddenly taken up residence in our neighborhood. Don’t know why, but I’ve seen four of them. Apparently the crows have learned how to bombard stray cats. That poor little black and white tom cat had to slink away under the weeds in the woods because all seven crows were on the attack, and I mean physically attack by dive bombing. It looked like something out of Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds” movie. EEK!

But that tom cat came back. Cats are not dumb you know. And he brings me back into my home, where I live with two cats, the obnoxious Nutter and Holly Golightly, named so cause she is pretty and reminds me of Audrey Hepburn in the movie “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” She thinks she’s pretty too, but all cats need to have positive self-esteem, which Holly has mountains of and which she demonstrated just last week. She is usually parked next to my on the sofa, but this particular evening, she was not. Didn’t bother me, cats wander. No problem. Until I heard the awful caterwauling. Caterwaul is defined on the internet as howl, wail, bawl, yell, scream, screech, yowl, etc. I’ve never heard such a loud horrible noise.

I jumped up. Was one of my cats dying!?! That’s what it sounded like. I began a frantic hunt. Couldn’t find Holly or her obnoxious companion Nuts, my other cat. I was sure something horrible had happened. Ran for a flashlight to do a search of my home’s darker corners, wondering the whole time if I could find a veterinarian at 10 p.m. at night. Everything became quite clear when I happened to point my flashlight at my front windows. That’s where that same black-and-white tom cat, recently trounced by a flock of crows, was trying to flirt with my pretty Holly, who is also black and white. Tom Cat (he is now named – OH OH) was on the outside ledge of my picture window, and Holly was voicing her opinion of him from the inside window ledge. Apparently he wasn’t passing muster. Apparently his appearance was worse than that. Apparently Holly was not in a singles-bar-pickup kind of mood. I breathed a sigh of relief, and wondered what would have happened to Tom Cat if he and Holly had been nose to nose. Poor little feller. Nothing good I’m sure. Tried to tell him all my critters are spayed and neutered. He didn’t stand a chance with my pretty little Holly.

And all that just goes to show that we don’t need to watch TV soap operas for a little entertainment. Just watch the critters. They are sure to get your attention.

Confessions of the Mechanically Mis-inclined

A lack of mechanical know how and abilities is a normal state for me. Not sure why. It’s not genetic. Or at least Mom and Dad knew which way to turn a screw driver. I have to stop and think about it. And now days, at my age, if I have to stop and think about which way to turn a screw driver, I’ll forget why I have to turn it in the first place. Can’t tarry too long over whatever project I’ve taken on for that day.

And Good Grief! Mechanical things seem not to want to cooperate with me, but seem to be after me too. And last week was no different, maybe even a little worse.

It all started with the coffee pot. It is, or was, a fairly new coffee pot, maybe two or three years old. And that’s new compared to the one it replaced, which had served as good 15 years before refusing to drip any more. So I comparison shopped and got what I thought was a good replacement.  It is all digital, and could be programmed to have that cuppa joe waiting on you as soon as you got up out of bed in the morning. I didn’t mess with that too much. It was too much trouble. And it has all kinds of water and coffee filters, just to be sure you got the best coffee ever every morning.

And that was OK, until Saturday.  Had my pot ready to go, but when I pushed that digital button, all my coffee pot would do was tell me, “ERROR.” What?!? What kind of pot tells you, on its little digital window, that you have caused on ERROR? Should I have poured the water in better? Should I have stirred the coffee grounds? What to do?

Those of you who know me, know that I’m lucky if I can even find the floor in the morning, much less the kitchen and the coffee pot. And I remain in that Never-NeverLand until the first swallow of caffeine. After that, everything is OK. Everything was not OK Saturday morning. I have another coffee pot. In fact I have two backups just in case. Coffee is a necessity. But where were they? Good grief! I was being forced to think before the caffeine hit the brain cells. Where is that other POT!?! Just where I left it. On top the dishwasher, ready to go at moment’s notice. This was that moment. And a few moments later I sighed with happiness, now that I had my coffee and was beginning to wake up, for real.

I have begun the search for a new, every-day pot. And I have decided to go retro. There will be no digital. There will be no multiple filters. There will be a simple on-off switch, because I never want to get an ERROR message (yes, the message was in all caps) again from a coffee pot.

But, the coffee pot fiasco pales when compared to Wednesday’s strange occurrence. That’s when my spare tire decided to remind me that it has hung underneath my pickup truck for the last 20 years without so much as one thought on my part.

It all started with a hiss. I had just shown off my gardening exploits to Darling Daughter (she has the green thumb, I have the black thumb), and was walking back with her to her pickup truck when she announced, “Oh-oh Mom.” She heard the hiss before I did. And Darling Daughter, being much younger of course, got down on the driveway to check out which of my tires was announcing its demise by hissing. She found that none of them were, not the ones attached to the truck’s wheels anyway. That caused me to at least bend over to assist. If it wasn’t a tire going flat, what could it be? Bending over didn’t help. You had to get down on all fours. That’s where Darling Daughter and I witnessed a sight never seen before. . .a spare tire going flat before it ever got on the vehicle. And it wasn’t just going flat, it was unpeeling itself. How does a tire, that’s not on vehicle and under no pressure, just burst out of its rubber layers all by itself? It’s a mystery, to me at least. A Darling Daughter backed me up quickly with the announcement, “Don’t touch it. It might explode!”

Well of course it will! Coffee pots announce “ERROR,” and my spare tire wants to explode. Sometimes I’m glad I am not mechanically inclined. I’m gonna’ leave all this up to the fix-it guys, right after that first cup of coffee in the morning.

Thank You for Your Time

I have a philosophical friend. She’s philosophical about everything. She sends philosophical emails on a daily basis.  I can’t even spell philosophical. Had to look it up with Spell Check. Still, I read everything my philosophical friend sends to me, and sometimes, I think I gotta’ share. That’s because my philosophical friend is just trying to make us think, and maybe make our lives better.  So here’s Philosophical Friend’s best thoughts from last week. Enjoy.

A mother told her grown son over the phone, "Mr. Belser died last night. The funeral is Wednesday."

Memories flashed through his mind like an old newsreel as he sat quietly remembering his childhood days.

"Jack, did you hear me?"

"Oh, sorry, Mom. Yes, I heard you. It's been so long since I thought of him. I'm sorry, but I honestly thought he died years ago," Jack said.

"Well, he didn't forget you. Every time I saw him he'd ask how you were doing. He'd reminisce about the many days you spent over 'his side of the fence' as he put it," Mom told him.

"I loved that old house he lived in," Jack said.

"You know, Jack, after your father died, Mr. Belser stepped in to make sure you had a man's influence in your life," she said.

"He's the one who taught me carpentry," Jack said. "I wouldn't be in this business if it weren't for him. He spent a lot of time teaching me things he thought were important...Mom, I'll be there for the funeral.”

As busy as he was, Jack kept his word, and caught the next flight home. Mr. Belser's funeral was small and uneventful. He had no children of his own, and most of his relatives had passed away.

The night before he had to return home, Jack and his Mom stopped by to see the old house next door one more time.

Standing in the doorway, Jack paused for a moment. It was like crossing over into another dimension, a leap through space and time. The house was exactly as he remembered. Every step held memories. Every picture, every piece of furniture. Jack stopped suddenly.

"What's wrong, Jack?" his Mom asked.

"The box is gone," he said.

"What box?" Mom asked.

"There was a small gold box that he kept locked on top of his desk. I must have asked him a thousand times what was inside. All he'd ever tell me was 'the thing I value most,'" Jack said.

It was gone. Everything about the house was exactly how Jack remembered it, except for the box. He figured someone from the family had taken it.

"Now I'll never know what was so valuable to him," Jack said. "I better get some sleep. I have an early flight home, Mom."

Two weeks after Mr. Belser died, Jack discovered a note in his mailbox.

"Signature required on a package. No one at home. Please stop by the post office within the next three days," the note read.

Early the next day Jack retrieved the package. The small box was old and looked like it had been mailed a hundred years ago. The handwriting was difficult to read, but the return address caught his attention. "Mr. Harold Belser" it read. Jack took the box out to his car and ripped open the package. Inside was the gold box and an envelope. Jack's hands shook as he read the note inside.

"Upon my death, please forward this box and its contents to Jack Bennett. It's the thing I valued most in my life."

A small key was taped to the letter. His heart racing, as tears filled his eyes, Jack carefully unlocked the box. There inside he found a beautiful gold pocket watch. Running his fingers slowly over the finely etched casing, he unlatched the cover. Inside he found these words engraved:  "Jack, Thanks for your time! -Harold Belser."

"The thing he valued most was...my time."

Jack held the watch for a few minutes, then called his office and cleared his appointments for the next two days.

"Why?" Janet, his assistant asked.

"I need some time to spend with my son," he said.

"Oh, by the way, Janet, thanks for your time!"

"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take but by the moments that take our breath away."

Think about these things: 

1. At least 15 people in this world love you in some way.

2. A smile from you can bring happiness to anyone, even if they don't like you.

3. Every night, SOMEONE thinks about you before they go to sleep.

4. You mean the world to someone.

5. If not for you, someone may not be living.

6. You are special and unique.

7. When you think you have no chance of getting what you want, you probably won't get it, but if you trust and do what's best, and wait, sooner or later, you will get it or something better.

8. When you make the biggest mistake ever, something good can still come from it.

9. When you think the world has turned its back on you, take a look: you most likely turned your back on the world.

10. Someone that you don't even know exists loves you.

11. Always remember the compliments you receive. Forget the rude remarks.

12. Always tell someone how you feel about them; you will feel much better when they know and you'll both be happy.

13. If you have a great friend, take the time to let them know that they are great.

 To everyone who read this, "Thanks for your time."

A Most-Perfect Holiday

Was that not just the best Fourth of July ever? It was at my house. Early on I decided that on July 4 I would do just what I wanted to. My kids are grown, and oh heck, my grandkids are grown up too. And they were all off doing their own family celebrations. But I decided to stay at home, and do exactly what I wanted to do. I wanted to work in my yard, planting flowers, building flower beds, etc. Strange how we semi- and completely-retired persons take up these new hobbies never thought much of before passing that retiree-age birthday. Me? I’ve decided to plant things. I have no idea why. Even growing up on the farm, I did not have a green thumb. Dad had a green thumb, demonstrated by a huge garden every year. That gene jumped my generation and went straight to Darling Daughter, who can grow anything.

It occurs to me that, subconsciously, I have decided to take on a new challenge – overcoming my black thumb. It started out with a few potted flowers. There is one flower, called impatiens, which resists my unwanted ability to kill any growing thing. So I started off with a few of those. Then I moved on to tomatoes. Wanted some yellow ones. Couldn’t find just one yellow tomato plant and had to buy six, and five survived. Yay! Daughter helped with those, so my veggie plants are still growing strong. Have not seen any tomatoes yet though, hum.

I was on a roll. OK. What’s next? Started hanging out in the gardening departments of various stores. Hey, if Walmart doesn't have it maybe the home improvement stores will. For weeks you could find me roaming around Lowe’s, or Home Depot, or other such places.  And before you knew it, I had loads of pretty little plants, lots and lots of pretty little plants. I tenderly take those pretty little plants home with me, talking to them all the time. They say talking to your plants helps them grow. To overcome my black thumb, I’ll try anything. So do NOT point me out to any passing psychiatrist because I’m talking to a drooping petunia. Never could convince a petunia to keep on keeping on. In one memorable instance, a hanging basket of petunias, purchased by me and hung on the porch, was dead the next day. I don’t like petunias.

So I searched for sturdier plants, then brought them home, set them on the porch, and stared at them. Was sure they would keel over any minute, and didn't want to waste any extra time before I had to lay my flowers under the ground, not in the ground as planned. Darling Daughter got a little concerned though. “What are you going to do with those hostas?” she inquired on one visit. “Plant them,” I responded. “When?” she wanted to know. “They’ve been sitting on the porch for a month.” I came back, “I’m gonna plant them right over there in the front yard.” You can’t get by Darling Daughter. “Today’s a good day to do that,” she offered, and she planted those hostas. And they are ALL alive. I knew there was a trick to this. You have to convince your friends and relatives that they have to help you out, kind of like a reverse Tom Sawyer thing.

I didn’t realize you had to douse the garden soil till it was muddy, or that you have to get down in that mud and get dirty all over, or that you had to wear knee-high rubbers boots when planting stuff. I know it now cause Darling Daughter did all of the above. Eww! That’s an awfully dirty hobby.

Never mind, I’m going to grow stuff in my retirement. So on July 4 I planted, and planted, and planted. Yes, I admit it, I got dirty. And terribly muscle sore cause you got to get up and down and up and down and up and down. Oh well, it’s a new challenge, right? Ouch! The good news is all those plants are STILL ALIVE! Wow! OK. I will admit Darling Daughter has saved my new plants – mums, marigolds, zinnias, etc. – on a couple occasions because I did not know that all those newly-planted plants had to be watered, not once a week, but daily. Well no wonder they had keeled over and were laying on top the ground looking wilty. But Darling Daughter saved them, and me. And wonder of wonder, all that planting I did on the Fourth of July has been successful. It was a perfect day. Oops. Then a local store put ALL their plants on sale. I got a pickup load full, and so did Darling Daughter. Oh no! Darling Daughter said she has to plant her own garden, and I’m on my own. OK black thumb turning green, get busy!

Sally in a MIX Fix

I may not be Jenny from the Block, (and don’t we all wish we could sing like Jennifer Lopez, or look like her, or, oh never mind), but I am for sure Sally in the Mix, Sallisaw’s new, fabulous radio station that is. That could also be interpreted as in a mix or fix, meaning in trouble, which I usually am. When asked to come up with a title for these new literary efforts, that’s the best I could do.

And I immediately proved that Sally in the Mix, or in a fix, is absolutely true. I did that one late evening while trying to get into the new KXMX building on Kerr Boulevard in Sallisaw. As I tell my sources, news doesn’t all happen between 9 and 5. News has the audacity to show up at any hour. So 10 p.m. was about normal, but I wasn’t prepared for a late-evening murder.

Nor was I prepared for the newly-installed security system, or its very LOUD alarms, all kinds of alarms, screaming at me like I was making some kind of prison break, which I immediately thought of.

It was like, “OMG, I’m going to jail!” I called the Boss. “The ALARM’S going off!” I screamed so he could hear me, as though he didn’t know.

“I know,” he said. “I called the company. They turned it off.”

“Whew,” was all I could say.

So I got busy, called my contacts, and got the news story done. No problem there. The only problem I saw was getting out of the building. I called the Boss.

“How do I get out of here?” was my really-need-to-know question.

Boss told me where the system’s number pad was. Hey, this is Sally in a Mix Fix, and I have never, ever claimed to be computer science savvy. I couldn’t find it. Never mind that it was right there, stuck to the wall, for all to see. After a 10 minute search in the dark, I stumbled upon the wall-mounted number pad.

Boss told me how to plug in the numbers, and I did so. Just like he said. Really. I really, really did. You know what’s coming don’t you. Yes, I proceeded to unlock building’s front door and, I swear, every alarm in a five-block area went off, again.

“EEK!”

I ran. I admit it. I panicked. I could see myself in handcuffs, in jail. So I ran. I locked that door, and I ran. Got in the old pickup truck and grabbed cell phone to call Boss back. Why does it all happen at once? By truck’s cab lamp I saw that, somewhere along the way, I had bumped hand hard enough to cause a shooting stream of blood that was proceeding to cover my cell phone. ‘Are you kidding me?’ I thought. Actually, I said it out loud to anyone who would listen. Nobody.

After stopping the flow of blood, and figuring out how to call Boss on cell phone, I finally managed to report that the alarm system was sounding again, and I, the coward, ran away. But now I was bleeding, and I really didn’t want to go to jail.

“Again!?!,” he said. “It’s still going off?”

“Yes,” I confessed.

He’s a pretty nice boss, but I did have to go back into that building, where alarm was screeching still, and find the alarm system pad, then punch in all those numbers he read off to me, and a bunch of other stuff.

At last, silence.

I thought about sneaking out of the building and somehow not opening the door or even trying to lock it back, just leaving it open, to avoid any sort of alarm. But that wouldn’t be nice, so I didn’t. On the other hand, I will not be going into that building after 5 p.m. EVER AGAIN!

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