Tell me: Why do I continue shaving my legs when there's no one here to see them? No, it's not a philosophical tree-falling-in-the-forest question. I'm really wondering. Force of habit, I suppose. Even when I was so pregnant I couldn't tie my shoes, I managed to keep my legs shaved. Well, I was a bit more bendy back then.
I have a new back door--and no, that's not a euphemism for a booty lift. The threshold on the door going from my garage to the back yard was rotting away, which the rental inspector noted as a "must fix" when she was here last month. My laid-back landlord forgot to tell me he was sending a couple of guys here to fix it, and his oversight almost caused a heart attack. In me, that is. This past Saturday, about 7:30 a.m.--an ungodly hour on the weekend, right?--I heard someone pull into my driveway and then pound on my door. It was still dark outside, so I did my best Gladys Kravitz imitation and peered out the window. I saw two strange men loitering outside. Call me paranoid, but no way in hell am I opening the door for men I don't know when I'm still in my pajamas and it's dark outside.
Finally, they left. Just when my dogs had finally calmed down again, they came BACK and pounded on the door longer this time. I don't mind telling you I was freaked out. I lurked in the hallway, trying to see through the living room window. I wanted to get to the fireplace poker, but they would have seen me dashing across the living room to get it. Oh, and here's how freaked out I was: It never occurred to me to call the police. Dumb, I know.
Monday, my landlord called and apologized for not letting me know he'd sent these guys over to work on the door. Christ on a biscuit! Yes, a little advance warning would have been helpful. Later that day, Harold the Carpenter came over to measure the door. He noticed how flimsy the back door was and said he didn't think it was very safe for a "lady living alone." I decided not to correct his assumption that I'm a lady and said it had been worrying me. My poor osteoporosis-ridden Aunt Joan could have kicked that door in with no trouble, even dragging her oxygen tank. He offered to tell my landlord that the door was starting to rot, too, and recommend replacing it with a steel door. Not much of a stretch, really--it was a hollow-core door, and the veneer had already started peeling off because of water damage.
Harold came back the next day and installed the door. It's much sturdier, and I feel a lot safer. I guess I'm keeping my legs shaved because of all these men coming over to do chores for me. If my legs start getting stubbly, I might have to call a plumber next.