The Solicitor

It wasn’t the poor guy’s fault. He was just trying to do whatever summer job he’d been suckered into – rumor has it high school type kids are running low on options these days.

The doorbell rang at about 6:30, the typical delivery hour for our particular UPS route (with the driver who I’m pretty sure thinks we’re running some sort of Diapers.com scam out of our house due to the never-ending stream of boxes). It wasn’t the latest supply of Pampers Cruisers (now in Size 5!)

With one shoe on, my sweater off, my hair falling askew from the business-professional bun it had been wrapped in, and tiny shoe prints marking my skirt, I looked every bit the frantic disheveled mother targeted on TV dinner commercials.

My children were presently in a manic state. One of them was dripping. Both of them were sticky. The following conversation had occurred as their preschool day came to a conclusion:

Me: Why does my son have a red head?
Teacher: We finger painted today.
Me: Did he get on any the paper?
Teacher: No.

Staring at me across the threshold and standing about six feet back from the front door was a young man holding a book.

I was holding a knife in the hand currently covered in the red-hot treat, sticky licking sweets.

In the other hand, I grasped the collar of the black dog – who was frantically and ferociously lunging toward the door with frantic vicious sounding howls and growls at the unsuspecting young man trying to hock his wares.

(The crazy canine was simply trying to remind me that no one had yet fed him dinner. And as such he needed to warn the entire neighborhood that the world was Going. To. End. Imminently.)

The other dog was running rampant around the kitchen trying to tackle a small child and lick his face, which was covered in jelly. Said child was marching around shouting, “SAMMICH!”

However, given the knife in my hand and accompanying boysenberry jam smeared about my person, there is a good chance the unwelcome solicitor may have heard screams of “Stabby!” (I couldn’t tell you – as I’m becoming increasingly fluent in toddler.)

Not to be deterred from his sales mission, the young man at the door resolutely spoke up. “Hi. Nice to meet you.” Complete with the mimed movement of shaking hands – even though he was standing six feet away, looking suspiciously at the freaked out black dog.

“Is now a good time?” he asked, clearly the beginning of his script.

In the background, another child was busy liberating every last instant oatmeal packet he could find from the restrictive confines of it’s paper packaging. His bloody (jammed) brother had scaled the jogging stroller and descended rapidly as it tipped over, sending him shooting backwards as he squealed, “Wheeeeeeee” like the Geico commercial piggy.

“Now is not a good time.”

“But this is to discuss my college preparedness, so I can get ahead,” he persisted.

“Now is not a good time.”

“But if I could just take a moment of your time…so I can get to college.

I looked at him. Then at the muppets running amuck around the house, a sticky trail of handprints dotting the wall.

Still holding the knife (which was totally not from stabbing anyone or thing in a fit of fury, but rather mid-PB&J attempt to quell the crisis currently being experienced by the child screaming “SAMMICH” – or, you know, possibly “Stabby”), I repeated:

“Now is not a good time.”

“But if I could just take a quick minute…”

“I’m going to close the door now. Or no one, No One, is getting to college. Ever.”

“OATMEAL!” shrieked a muppet in celebration, as flakes went flying.

I do wonder if he was selling knives door to door.