And by angry dog, I mean the woman of the house.
We have had so many solicitors come to the door since we moved in! In Florida, we would get about one every few months, but here they seem to come every other day, and that is not an exaggeration. We’ve had the Schwann’s guy, the guy who sells steaks, the other guy who sells steaks, the farmer behind us who wants to sell us a cow, the kid who wants to shovel our driveway for two bucks (we said yes to that little capitalist-in-the-making), the Avon lady, the door-to-door perms lady, a few used car salesmen, and today, a man came buy and offered to give Frank a box of Jell-O if he could just come in and demonstrate some contraption he had. Frank told him we didn’t have the time or the money (box of Jell-O aside). Ack! How do SAHMs get any lunches prepared, babies fed, naps done, and all that when the food and snake oil people are ringing the doorbell all day long? And homeschooling moms, how do they fit in school? Dude.
The second steak salesman came a couple of days ago and almost got an earful of SarahK. Rowdi was barking when the doorbell rang, because, let’s see… she’s a dog. We’re still training her on that one. Anyway, she was barking and howling, so I held her by the collar so she wouldn’t run out the door — she was clearly in her “I’ve forgotten how to be good” frame of mind and would have bolted past steak man and given the neighborhood smells a good sniffing. Mr. Filet Mignon said, “Oh, sorry to bother you. I didn’t realize you had a killer in there.” Somebody’s hackles went straight up, and they weren’t Rowdi’s. I couldn’t even see the idiot, whose own dog probably barks at the doorbell too, and I yelled from the bottom of the stairs in my say-it-to-my-face voice, “SHE’S NOT A KILLER!” The door was not open for that guy very long.
I don’t know if it was the gated community thing in Florida or what. But I’m seriously considering putting up a sign. “Solicitors will be fed to vicious woman of the house.”