• Erin P Griffith

It was only a matter of time...

Having arrived home well after the kids bedtime from having Christmas with my in-laws, we left everything in the car; presents, food, my purse...everything.

As soon as the sun broke over the horizon the next morning, my offspring were up and demanding that I go out to the car and get their presents so that they could start playing with them. I managed to put them off for a while with breakfast and some of the toys they had received earlier on Christmas day, but around 9 am, I was going to have to go and unload the car.

In my pajamas, no bra, and slipper socks I hoofed my butt out to the frigid garage. I opened the garage door, and popped the trunk. I hooked William's electric razor scooter over one arm, grabbed two big shopping bags in the other, and stuck a casserole dish under the same arm. I turned around and came face to face with two Jehovah's witnesses scurrying excitedly up my driveway.

What. The. Ever. Loving. Fuck?

9 am?

On the day after a major holiday that (based on the unholy number of easily observable inflatable lawn decorations) most people in my neighborhood celebrate?

Their excitement could only be based on one of two things. Either, they had not had very many people answer the door or be nice to them (big surprise there, geniuses). Or, and the more likely option, they have been to my house before and been warned off by my semi-threatening sign about solicitors.


It was only a matter of time really before they caught me out of doors where my sign could not safely threaten them away. I mean, it's a wooden fucking sign, not a force field, right?

Anyway, so there I was unmedicated, still trying to recover from an uber stressful few months, in my jammies, double Ds unrestricted, hair a mess, teeth unbrushed, mascara smooshed in a way that only rabid raccoons could truly appreciate, carrying a load of food and unwrapped gifts like a Peruvian pack llama .... and they were coming at me at great speed.

"Ma'am, you look busy?" he says.

"Do I?" I ask sardonically, weighted down precariously with all of the aforementioned stuff.

"We won't keep you, but we would like to give you this brochure. It just asks you this question: where will you go when this life is over?" holds out brochure.

I stare at him with all the fires from my blackened soul; because, with which hand should I take this brochure? The one keeping the casserole dish from crashing to the garage floor? Or the one holding the awkwardly balanced electric scooter.

With a look somewhere between fear and confusion, he laid the brochure on the base of the scooter, wished me a good day, and walked off with his female companion.

Seriously. Maybe I have no soul and maybe, just maybe, the last few months have turned me into dark, jaded, hate-harpy. But the day after Christmas? Approaching a bra-less woman in her garage. They were seriously tempting fate.


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