When I’m at home, after having spent the better part of my day running the streets with the girls, I just want to relax.  Usually, I am able to scrape together about 20 to 30 minutes for myself while the girls play quietly. And truly, unless someone is bleeding, bones are showing through skin, or the house is on fire with us all inside,  I don’t want to be disturbed.

Too bad the door-to-door douchebag solicitor didn’t get the memo.

I had seen this guy talking to a neighbor across the street.  He wasn’t someone I recognized from the block. Something about him just screamed “I’ve got something to sell you!”  I hustled the girls inside and locked the door.

I made my way downstairs after tucking in the girls and sure enough, there’s a knock on our door.  Let me re-phrase, there was a vicious pounding on the front door.  You’d have thought the ATF was outside and I was running a meth lab out back.

 I was already coming down the stairs, so I don’t know whether or not he heard me or saw me through the glass panes at the top of the door.  I crouched down and did a half Groucho Marx walk/half commando slither to the front of the house where I could get a look at who it was, but I already knew.

As my fingertips hung onto the windowsill, I raised my head slightly over the top.  I realized, all he had to do was take a few steps to the left and we’d be face to forehead.  I dropped quickly onto the floor, laying supine under the windows, my ears pricked for any movements on the front porch.

Man, I did not want to open the door!  I counted 10 beats.  I counted 20 beats.  Quietly, quietly, quietly,  I came to a squatting position and tip-toed it to the far side of the room where I could get an angle on the front porch.  Gone.

Two days later, it’s Friday morning.  DH and I woke up late, the kids having camped out with my folks.  As DH headed to the bathroom for the three S’s, I made my way downstairs to make him a bite to eat.  I’m halfway down the stairs when I hear:

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Are you kidding me? It’s 7:45 in the morning.  Upon hearing the banging, my body goes into fight or flight.  Seriously, the door sounds like it’s about o bust off its hinges.  I drop to a crouch and cruise over to the windows.  It’s the same freaking guy from before!  What are you doing?! What could you possibly have to sell at 7:45 in the morning? What makes you think that banging on my front door like you’re John Henry is going to make someone open the door?

I already knew I wasn’t going to open it.   So what if he could see me through the windows?  I pulled myself to my full 63 inches and walked through my house, squeaky floorboards and all.

I thought about putting a “No Solicitors” on the front door, but I don’t want to be that family on the street.  Besides, with back-to-school all but here, I’m sure the Girl Scouts will be rolling out their cookie patrol and I surely don’t want to miss that.