12142017Headline:

And Now, Why I Don’t Open the Door…

"I'm not mad, just frustrated I got dressed to answer the door for someone selling mutton chop grooming kits."

“I’m not mad, just frustrated I got dressed to answer the door for someone selling mutton chop grooming kits.”

In case you’re wondering, yes, the amount of chocolate that’s been eaten around here, within the last twenty-four hours is obscene. The twins have also eaten their fare share. But, reasons for my hands shaking aside, Easter for the Kellermans was fantastic and I hope yours was as well.

*Takes a brief timeout to decided whether she wants to make a chocolate bunny walk the plank into her coffee. Decides said bunny is all the way upstairs. Back to typing. Uses slight of hand to direct everyone from inward monologue back to outer monologue.*

Have I ever told you I’m terrified of answering the door? Admittedly, our neighborhood has a very low vampire rate, but trying to guess who’s knocking on my house never fails to give me pause, mainly because it’s usually:

a.) sometimes a vampire
b.) kid selling candy and I never have cash
c.) Salesman selling sales or trying to kill me

So, I usually don’t answer, tell the kids to get out of the window, and pray whoever it was didn’t hear me shouting, “Get down. Get down out of the window. You’re not wearing pants. None of us are wearing pants. Get down.”

But, on Friday, I decided to be brave when I heard the knock on the door…

“Good morning, mam.”

“Good morning to you, man holding flowers.”

He smiled broadly and held out the glass vase filled with beautiful things which whispered, “After all these years of suspecting it, here’s the proof that someone likes you,” and turned the card towards me. “These are for you.”

“For me? I can’t imagine who-”

“Because you’re Sue, right?”

“No.”

“You’re not Sue?”

“That’s why I stopped grinning like a lobotomized lemur five seconds ago.”

Slowly, he withdrew the offering of flowers, a wise move, as I’d been silently considering hugging them to my chest, running inside, and slamming the door. “Sue doesn’t live here?”

“She does not.”

“But she has your address.”

“Oh, that Sue. She lived in the shed for a while, but then, one morning, we realized she’d taken her knapsack, two-way radio and expired canned goods, and hit the open road.”

“So there’s no Sue here?”

“Or knapsacks. You may want to try further down the street.”

All in all, after Friday, I got to expand my reasons for not opening the door, because “false hope” is as bad as a sparkly vampire selling candy I don’t have the money for.

Paige Kellerman blogs about marriage, babies and gin at www.paigekellerman.com. You can reach her at paigekellerman@gmail.com.


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