Wednesday, October 2, 2013

Maybe the Meanest Thing I've Ever Done

Tomorrow is Little K 's day to take snacks to preschool.  I thought it would be a good idea to make adorable fruit and cheese skewers.  What I didn't notice until I had already loaded the fruit was that the skewers are enthusiastically pointy.  Like little wooden daggers.  I decided it wasn't in my best interest to send weapons disguised as snacks to preschool, and would feel pretty badly about de-eyeing nine 3-year olds and a lovely teacher.  So I tried my damnedest to chop of the sharp edges using my fabric scissors.  Mr. B was at a dinner meeting, and I was done feeling resourceful so I unloaded the skewers.  The result was what looked like a health food massacre.  I had a kitchen full of mutilated fruit.  I transferred the fruit into plastic bags (mixing it in with non-murdered pieces).  I'm just hoping Little K's classmates don't say, "Ms. Becky, why do my grapes have stab marks?"  Hopefully Ms. Becky will have the humor to say, "Little K brought us holy fruit to Catholic preschool today!"

During this fruit and cheese emergency, my doorbell rang.  In my last post I touched on the anxiety that an unexpected knock on the door brings.  I am instantly pissed off if my quiet is interrupted.  Not only am I thrust into an unknown situation, but now Daisy has turned into Cujo, and Little K has opened the curtains and is waving at whoever is on the front porch.  I can't even pretend to not be home. 

So I opened the door, and an eager sales girl tries to sell me windows because she noticed I "have old windows."  First of all, I like my old drafty windows.  I always have a slight breeze, so my house never gets stuffy in the winter.  Second of all, if I wanted to make a several thousand dollar purchase, Mr. B would say no we would go to a home improvement store.  I politely pointed out my glass door's no soliciting sign, to which she snipped, "I just noticed that".  I closed my door and went back to the kitchen to deal with The Fruit Slaughtering of 2013.

Not ten minutes later.  Ten.  Effing.  Minutes.  My doorbell rang.  Again.  My first thought was, "If that's not Jesus, he's getting a wooden skewer in the eye.  I hastily opened my front door to a smiling chubby guy who was waving at me.  Cujo Daisy was barking and snarling and Little K was smiling and waving back.  Without opening it, I bitchily pointed out the no soliciting sign on my glass door.  As he leaned closer to read my sign, I slammed my front door closed.

It might have been the meanest thing I've ever done.

I probably ruined that poor chubby smiling guy's night.  In my defense, I feel like I deserve to not be bothered in my own home.  Telemarketers are one thing – although that do-not-call-list is not proving very helpful – but don't come knock on my door during dinner hours.  Or ever.  Let's go with ever.

The thing is, I'm so pissed off when my doorbell rings, there is no way I'm going to buy what you're selling.  If you want me to buy something from you, you need to catch me at 4:00 am on QVC, when I'm exhausted and feeding my colicky infant.  He's almost four now, so you have missed your window.

I told Mr. B about what I did and he said that if I've never done anything meaner than that I’m in pretty good shape.  He also said, "Geez Kels, you took our son to jury duty and now you slammed a door in a guy's face; I'm starting to wonder if you've got a set of balls hidden in there somewhere!" 

Thank you for keeping me In Good Company.