People Who Live in Glass Houses

           I have to join Witsec. Again.  This time a workman saw me in my underwear. MY UNDERWEAR!  How did this happen, you ask?

          First, I was gardening. During unseasonably hot weather (my mistake, granted). Soon I was a hot mess, sweaty from head to toe. I came into the house, peeled off my shirt, drank some ice water, then sat down in the kitchen to fan myself.

          Next thing I know, a workman, who is supposed to arrive at 4pm has instead chosen to arrive at 3pm, has gone straight into the back yard, and is now knocking at the glass doors I am facing. Lest you think there is a glare on the glass and he can’t really see me, he is also calling my name.

          I look up, horrified, and quickly scramble into my nearby wet clothing. I have to go outside to answer his questions and now my face is redder than it was when I was gardening.

          Bob comes home and I tell him what happened and that we have to move and change our identities. I see his lips twisting in an effort not to laugh. I believe this is the leading cause of injuries to men.

          A few days ago I had given this workman a Book of Mormon, and now I am sure he thinks we are exhibitionists. My brain is still jumping up and down, screaming, so I can’t think how to approach this subject.

          But now, every time Bob leaves, he says, “Keep your clothes on.” He is living dangerously, that man.

People have actually asked me how I come up with such embarrassing situations in my comedy novels.  Are you kidding? Those are like diaries.  Check  ‘em out here.