A couple of days ago.
It’s late in the afternoon, 5:30, 5:45. It’s been a long day. I’ve changed into something comfy and plopped myself down on the couch with my laptop. The blinds to our living room are open slightly so I can see as this woman walks by, dressed in a dark blue suit, headed for a neighbor’s unit. I mean, I don’t know her so I figure she’s not coming here. Seconds later, though, she ambles up to our door. I start to click through what this could be about: Maybe she’s a J-Dub and I can mess with her head just like Jesus (aka the archangel Michael) would do or Maybe she’s one of those people I’ve prayed for who unclogs your toilet then gives you a massage or Maybe she’s with Hillary’s campaign and I can mess with her head just like Jesus would do.
So many possibilities. I am tingly with anticipation for at least three seconds. But, eh, it passes, and then I just wait for the knock on the door so I can sit and ignore it, like I usually do. I hate answering the door. Especially an unexpected knock on the door. In my experience, nothing good ever comes of it. Will it be a free puppy? Will it be Ed McMahon with a giant check the size of my doorway? No. No, it won’t. It will just be someone who wants something that I don’t want to give and I just want to be left alone with my snowglobe jammie bottoms and Stretchy, my comforting headband.
But there is no knock. Nope. The woman in the suit doesn’t knock. No, she doesn’t. Instead, she jiggles the doorknob. For several seconds.
What?
Luckily, the door is locked. It’s always locked if I’m inside because I live in southern California and I’m not completely stupid. But what if I didn’t keep the door locked? What if I was like my in-laws and never locked the door, ever, even at night when zombies stagger across the countryside hoping to kill you and eat your brains? I mean, can you imagine if she’d just been able to walk in on me sitting with my laptop in my snowglobe jammie bottoms and Stretchy, my comforting headband? Gah. She would have been so embarrassed for me.
Heart pounding a little, I watch her whilst Stretchy comforts me. She stands at the door for a moment after her unsuccessful jiggle then stomps away.
Phew. Home break-in and awkward social moment averted.
Moments later, though, I see her on the walkway again. She moseys up to our door again. Jiggles the doorknob for several seconds, again.
What the ??
Now I’m just annoyed. I don’t like random Betties trying to break into my house. Especially dishonest random Betties who try to disguise their felonious ways under an uptight blue suit and cover of daylight. I watch her again. She stands there for another moment, starts to walk away. But I jump up, gird my loins, and bound to the door, ready to confront my would-be felon.
I open the door, call to her back, “Uh, ma’am? Why do you you keep trying to come into my house?”
She turns around. “Oh. Uh …… well …. uhm, well, I’m looking for the lockbox for Unit 1.”
We’re Unit 2.
She walks closer, keeps talking. “I mean, it’s for rent and I thought, well, I uh —”
I slam the door in her face. Wham. Just like that. I don’t say anything else. I don’t need to or want to. Because I suddenly remember that I am standing in front of this blue-suited woman in my snowglobe jammie bottoms and Stretchy, my comforting headband.
Oh, and my aqua blue refining face mask.
Bet I don’t have to worry about her knocking on my door again.