Dontcha come back no more
GRIN # 396
Yeah, so, I’m having a little trouble with door-to-door solicitors.
I was contemplating either A. Writing or B. Mopping the floor, if that tells you anything. And, C, which is usually the most popular option: staring into an open fridge.
Then the doorbell rang, which bought me a few minutes before making a decision. When the lady asked if she could stop back by, I smiled. “Sure.”
And damn if she didn’t.
Another day, I was getting ready to pull in the driveway when I saw two people with clipboards walking up the driveway. Egads!
“Mom, where are we going?” Tyler asked as I drove past our house.
“Around the block; we gotta miss these people.”
The day I woke up so sick I was sure my head would burst, the doorbell rang as I was heading upstairs. I stood motionless, right behind the door, hoping the man wouldn’t see me through the side transom windows.
Turns out he was an inspector who actually NEEDED to sign off on some work we’d had to have done. So I had to make an appointment for him to come back!
Double damn!! I had a really hard time explaining that one to Jerry.
“You were here, right?”
“Yes, but I hid.”
Set up a Facebook page; tweet; blog. Anything! But don’t come to my door. I don’t want your crap. Unless you’re a Girl Scout selling Thin Mints or someone I specifically called to fix something, I gotta tell you: I’m not buying it–whether it’s a lawn service, an oil change, a vacuum cleaner or a religion.