I’m not sure what it is about our neighborhood that attracts so many door ringers. You know what I’m talking about – those annoying-as-hell people who make their living by ringing your doorbell to take donations to save bulimic whales, or buy magazine subscriptions to send some kid to self-esteem camp in Rangoon. There is nothing worse than being pulled away from my favorite pastimes of dish washing or cleaning up the beagle’s dinner that she hurked up on the living room carpet.
What is it about my neighborhood? Do we look more depraved than other neighborhoods? I would think these folks would want more bang for their buck and go hit up the neighborhood above us. They have about 3,000 homes and we challenge the growth charts at 36. And that’s including the greenbelt.
I try to be nice, and I could lie like a cheap rug and say that I smile politely and say, “No thank you. Oh, and have a lovely day.” But my kids would narc me out and say that I snarl like the beagle when she’s in full designer doggie chewie mode. Especially if I’m writing…like I was last weekend. The doorbell rang. I was alone, happily tippy tapping aways. I considered ignoring it, but I can’t do that any more than I can ignore a ringing phone.
On top of that, my hip is killing me, so it really hurts to hobble up from my desk (hurry up surgery!). So up I get, ow, ow, thinking this better be good.
“HI!” says the perky man in a suit. A suit? Who wears a suit on a Saturday? “I’d love to talk to you about your soul.” Ah ha, it’s then that I spy the bible he has tucked under his arm.
Blink. Blink. “My soul?”
It was the perfect opening for him to launch into something that involved Luke and Matthew. A few more blinks and I muttered something and closed the door.
My soul? Holy savior, Batman, I’m an editor. I have no soul.
What kinds of interruptions drive you to the brink of madness when you’re writing?