Warning to Those Who Come to My Door

Some poor bastard came to the front door this morning. Turns out he was trying to drum up business for his job; he works for Edward Jones, an investment company.

So there I am, unshowered, in my nightgown and flip flops, pregnant beyond belief, and still hoarse from my cold (though it has improved somewhat). Madeline was standing by me, unkempt as I was. This man was dressed very nicely in a suit, every hair in place. He asked me how I was and identified himself and his business.

So I told him how I was--bad cold, ready to deliver another baby, old. I was cheerful about it, though. I also told him that what with this unexpected child about to make his debut, I was pretty much planning on dying at my desk. What could he say to that? Still, I was nice enough to take his card and shake his hand. I even told him I hoped he didn't catch my cold from shaking hands with me.

I almost wished it were the Mormons. I would have invited them in and asked them to help me with housework I've fallen behind on. I think they are bound to help you out if you ask for it.