Since we bought our first house a year ago, my wife and I have adjusted nicely to home living, except for one thing. Whenever someone rings the doorbell, it throws our whole household into disarray. Our 9 pound dog starts yapping her Monopoly piece-size head off, and Jess and I suddenly go to acting like two parrots caught on fire. We dart madly about the house attacking each other with the same crucial question, over and over: “Who’s that? Who’s that?” This sort of thing usually continues until someone is able to drum up the courage to answer the door. And assuming the person at the door is still there, the other takes his place behind the couch peering at the door. That person (I’m not saying it’s always me. Okay?), having already dialed a ”9″ and a “1″ on the cell, will keep a finger ready over the final “1,” waiting, stiff-muscled, to the thump of his heartbeat in his throat. 

This tactic is extremely necessary — and may or may not be approved by Oprah – in case our  surprise visitor decides to grab ahold and make off with one of us. It’s not like we live in a bad neighborhood or anything. We are just neurotically suspicious. Besides, it has just been hard for us to adjust to the throngs of Girl Scouts in the area pushing Thin Mints.

Therefore, I have decided that from now on I shall wear jeans to bed. You just never know when that next knock at the door will be. And that scares me.     

Categories: Life
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