This morning, I was rudely and unexpectedly awakened by the shrill buzz of our doorbell. I have a very simple policy concerning unexpected doorbells: I treat them in the same way as television commercials, would-be hitchhikers, or lost children at the airport.
That is, I ignore them, and hope they go away.
I had just worked up a really good ignore and was drifting my way toward dreamland when the knock on the door came, loud:
‘BAM BAM BUMP BANG BAM!‘
That got my attention. The tiny sliver of attention I could muster in my drooling early morning haze, at least. I ran through the likely candidates of who might be at the door:
A neighbor? Screw ’em.
A local politician? Nah, the election’s over. And anyway, screw ’em.
Jehovah’s Witnesses? Screw ’em, smack ’em with a Bible, and screw ’em again.
Some contractor, coming to do some expensive bit of tinkering? Oooh… no. My wife always tells me in advance when those guys are scheduled.
“I have a very simple policy concerning unexpected doorbells: I treat them in the same way as television commercials, would-be hitchhikers, or lost children at the airport.”
Speaking of which, how about my wife? She knows my ‘don’t ask, don’t answer’ doorbell policy. If she forgets her keys, she’s got two options — bang like hell on the door until I open it, or slither through the doggy door. And I’m in trouble if I’m in the house, and she has to use the doggy door. Again.
(Yeah, it happened once. I’m pretty sure we’ll laugh about it together some day. But when I mention it now, I spend the night on the couch.
Too soon. Must be too soon.)
So, I figured it was my wife. I didn’t figure that she’d been gone for two hours, or that if it wasn’t my wife, whoever was there probably wouldn’t enjoy seeing me wearing nothing but bedhead and a rumpled pair of boxer shorts. So I stumbled down to the door.
It was a contractor. He was there to check our water heater. My wife forgot to tell me about the appointment. And he did not look happy to see me.
(For the record, I didn’t look that happy to see him, either.
I mean, I want the heater fixed before winter, but I made sure my boxers fly was closed, too. Even my wife doesn’t want to see that.)
Eventually, the guy got the heater checked out, while I combed my hair and made myself marginally presentable. He didn’t even charge me for the work when he left. He said it was ‘on the house’.
Hey, whaddaya know? Maybe my fly was open when I answered the door. How you doin’?Permalink | 1 Comment