Shit! The doorbell! Is it too late to hide?
I have much the same reaction when the phone rings. I like my phone to ring because I like the attention. I like knowing that someone is thinking about me enough to call me but I don’t really want to answer it.
Text me and I will race across hot coals to answer immediately.
It’s messed up, I know.
Usually, I am forced to answer the door because the kids have no fear of who is standing there. It could me a man standing in a ski mask hold an ax ready to chop us up into little pieces and my children would not only answer the door but let the man in and offer him candy.
I am thinking that maybe we need to balance each other out. They need a little bit more of my fear and I need a little bit more of their acceptance.
This time the kids were in school and even though every fiber of my being wanted to run and hide from the person at my front door, I had to answer it.
Also he could see me… darn large windows in the front of my house and there is no awkward like seeing a person and then running away from them.
I gave myself a mental bitch slap and walked to the door to open it.
“Hello, miss!” he said.
Man, I love it when people refer to me as ‘miss’. I hate ma’am with a passion. I know it’s a sign of respect and being polite but I don’t feel old enough to be a ma’am. Maybe when I am 70.
“Hello,” I said back.
He just stood there looking at me not saying a word. It was long enough that my ‘creepy’ radar was on high alert. I pushed those feelings down and remember he was here because he had a package for me.
“That for me?” I asked, hoping to speed up this encounter. Also, I wanted to get my hands on that package and find what was inside. It’s always fun to get an unexpected present.
“Yup,” he said handing it over to me.
I smiled and began to turn to close the door.
“What is ‘Buried with Children’?” he asked.
I looked at him, stunned. What in the world was he talking about? Had I suddenly become a famous blogger and now everyone knew my site?
He then pointed to the address label on the package. I looked down and read that it was addressed to ‘Buried with Children c/o Jen Mitchell’.
I smiled, “Oh that is just my…” I began.
Should I say website or blog? Website or blog? If I say blog will he understand? Does he know what a blog is?
“It’s my, uh, website,” I said, ending my internal debate and hoping that this would satisfy him.
“Well, that’s kind of a silly name. What kind of website is it?” he continued.
I smiled as sweetly as I could. Why did I feel like he was asking to see my underwear?
“Um, it’s a website where I write about my life and my kids. I tell funny stories about being a mom of triplets and their big brother,” I gave him my best elevator pitch summary of my site.
“Do you make money? Run ads on it?” he quickly fired back.
This was just weird. I don’t know why, it just felt that way but I answered, “Um, yes. I make some money but it’s really just a hobby… something that I enjoy doing.”
I breathed and hoped that he would be satisfied. He took a step down the porch and I felt like I was in the clear until he turned.
“How many readers do you have?” he asked.
Oh no, he didn’t! He was not going there. He was asking about readership and blogging stats, wanting me to break rule 212 of blogging; ‘Thou shall not show others your blog stats’. That’s about the same as looking under a ladies skirt and asking to take her underwear home so you can smell it.
“OhIhavelikeacouplethousandorsomethingbutlookIhavetogonowIamprettysurethatI smellsomethingburning.” I said as fast as I could and then shut the door.
I walked into the kitchen, stood just out of his view and watched him get into his truck.
Yeah, next time, awkward or not… I am just going to run and hide under the bed.