But you, dear estimate giver... you are an older man-older than my father actually. Yes, dear, we live in a military town... but please keep in mind, not all of us military wives are hard-up sluts that desperately 'need some' as everyone seems to think we are (a case of 'a few bad apples ruins the whole barrel', I'm sure). Yes, my dear sweetheart is overseas. Yes, he actually IS in Iraq. Yes, it sucks. Yes, he will be home soon. 'Soon' could constitute a year. Soon could constitute a month. Yes, I do have people living with me. ...And several guns, knives, a trained guard dog that will 'kill' at the word and I was taught how to defend myself in hand-to-hand sort of situations from a young age. I am very well set, along with my alarm system. Your ass would be crazy to break into my house, and if you attempted to harm me, you would be very dead.
Dear estimate giver, after my thorough smiling, good-customer-service type talk, mixed with dark threats just in case you're some kind of damned scammer that cases people's houses and decides to rob them, I decided to ask you how high my fence is. I honestly could not tell if it was 4 or 5 ft. Length I can measure. Height I am shit at.
'Boob height' is not an appropriate response! Nor is your sudden interest in telling me you're a 'boob man' while staring intently at my WELL COVERED (I have a tank top on. My neckline covers my collarbone all the way around. This shirt is also very loose-I hate revealing and tight things. I feel like a whore in them (even V-necks) and I can't breathe. So I feel like a streetwalker who needs new lungs. Not something I delight in) chest and making groping motions.
Congratulations, dear estimate giver. I played along, twisting and turning your train of thought. I knew what you would expect... so I changed tactics. I turned into the little redneck blue-collar girl that just turned you right on, didn't it? You're old enough to be my father-hell, my grandfather (I'm 20)-and you'd totally pound me into the dirt if I asked you to. Hell, if I were gonna use your company for the fence, you'd probably do it for free if I DID let you do such things.
The neat thing is, dear estimate giver-The insurance company told me to contact you. They did not tell you I was contacting you. I played the sweet, innocent little lonely girl... and you attempted to give me an estimate almost twice (AND YOU ADMITTED IT!) what it would actually cost so I could 'buy myself somethin' nice. *grin*'.
Dear Estimate giver. This is what I wanted you to do. I kept that extrodinary one... and I intend to have someone else out to give me a REAL estimate.
I can't wait until the insurance company that recommended you finds out that you're nearly molesting girls that are barely legal on their own property, as well as gouging them out of money-which is the entire reason I played along, so I could fuck you over in ways you could never imagine possible.
Here's hoping you enjoy your court date,
That girl who was practicing her foot placement for a certain annoying kick, lied, said it was ballet, and snickered inwardly when you grinned and said 'Well! you can show me some of that!'.
(Had such things not resulted in you being hospitalized, dear estimate giver, I would have happily beaten the ever loving shit out of you for trying to do such things. You asshole.)