The Empty Driveway

Early this morning, longtime hubby wandered into the bedroom, post-walkies, accompanied by Sir Blakey, and updated me on a D.D.D. 

A Deeply Disturbing Development:

"Are you sitting down?"

"What does it look like?"

"From where I stand, it looks like you're sitting."

"Spill it. I can take it. I'm one semi-tough SJG."

"The driveway is empty."

"Don't tell me that."

"I can't hide it from you."

"Are you sure?"

"I've checked 10 times."

"Ten times?"

"Okay. Two times." 

"You're saying there's nothing on the driveway." 

"That's what I'm saying."

"This is outrageous."

"It really is." 

"Did you call them?"

"Um. No."

"Why didn't you call them?"

"You're so much better at calling."

"It's one of my gifts." 

"So you'll call?"

"Hell, yes, I'll call. They're going to be sorry I called." 

"Go get 'em, tiger."

With that, he hits the treadmill, and I hit the phone. 

"Is this a delivery issue?" asks the pre-recorded voice. 

"I'm calling, aren't I?"  

"There's no need for sarcasm. Press 1."

"You press 1." 

"We're sorry for the delay."

"Sorry, my tush."

"Would you still like your paper delivered?"

"Sure. Fine. Whatever." 

"Press 1."

"Hang on a minute, Missy. When will it be delivered?"

 "Eff if I know. I'm only a machine."

Click.