Friday was a wash for me. I spent the entire day going between phone calls and e-mail messages with Hurt Child. I did manage to sneak in a quick shower. At lunch time.
[Please--don't jump to inquiring about foster parent services just yet. My Feral Child was in the capable hands of Bagheera and Baloo.]
I was sitting at my desk, e-discussing the nuances of, "What are my boundaries and how much is too much trying to help Hurt Child heal?" with my dear friend Mary, when out my back door, across the access road, what did my little eye spy? My final e-sentence to ever patient Mary was, "Oh crap. I see Jehovah's Witnesses walking around the neighborhood and I'm still in my bathrobe!" It was 1:45. Don't ask.
I admire Jehovah's Witnesses. They put themselves out there every single day for a cause that means more to them than self. And they cheerfully do it knowing that people are going to turn them away. Some less politely than others. Admiration notwithstanding, I didn't have the heart that day for a religious chat. I was in the mind to seek the counsel I was comfortable with, not have strangers seek me at my doorstep.
Plan of action: Quickly become presentable and hop in the car to do a superfluous errand all in an effort not to have to face Strange Imparters of Wisdom.
It almost worked.
It would have worked.
But I'm an idiot.
Grabbing coat and keys . . . okay, that's not true. That would have been the smart thing to have been doing. I wasn't grabbing coat and keys. I detoured to my desk to check my e-mail one last time--just really quickly--before merging back into the Race Against The Zealots.
The Zealots overtook me. Walking past my dining room window to knock on my front door, the Jehovah's Witnesses spied me in my office-which-is-really-an-alcove-situated-between-dining-room-and-kitchen.
Damn! I had almost foiled their opposite-of-evil scheme! I was dressed and coiffed (well . . . whatever . . . ) and just getting ready to sneak away! They saw me. I didn't have a choice. I had to answer the door.
So--I'm wearing a greater-than-my-average cleavage bearing blouse, thinking "Gee, I should grab a sweater and cover up" followed by, "meh--if they're going to go around accosting people unexpectedly, they're gonna have to deal with some cleavage from time to time."
I answered the door to find that they weren't Jehovah's Witnesses. They were Mormons. Freshly scrubbed, barely old enough to shave, 18 year old boy Mormons. And there I stood, in all my cleavagey glory . . .
I told them I was in a rush to take care of some important things (which wasn't entirely untrue--I was going to the market 300 yards from my door for a soda . . . ) Bless his heart, one of the youngsters in his crisp black (polyester) suit asked if there was anything he could help with.
As I drove out, I saw them walking down the road on the pretense of trying to save the rest of my neighbors. I'm sure what they were really doing was gathering the townspeople to get on their knees and pray for booby woman with the wild curly hair who was obviously off on a Friday afternoon for an early start to a weekend binge of boozing, partying and otherwise floozying about.
And that is how my entire day on Friday went . . .