November 20, 2010

Step off my Stoop

I am on a one woman campaign to make soliciting illegal.  No, not solicitation - that's different, people. 

Showing up at a house, knocking on the door and attempting to sell stuff - what are you idiots thinking? Do you have a death wish?  I don't even want to see a kindergartener standing there with chocolate.  I don't want to see a Girl Scout (like I wouldn't buy your cookies anyway. Like I don't pre-order them in droves anyway).  And I especially don't want to see a male stranger, mid-thirties, no uniform, no name tag standing on my stoop after dark, offering me some sort of deal on a Saturday night while I am home alone with two children.  

I joke about living in Lawrenceville. Alot. But it really is the seventh circle of hell. Of all the suburbs of Atlanta, we really hit the jackpot with this one.  After living in Duluth for a year across from the rich folks of the Sugarloaf Country Club (we rented a 1200 square foot apartment from the poor side of the street), I got a little spoiled. After being semi-burgled once already, I hate this place.  I hate Lawrenceville for the commute. I hate that our one fine dining restaurant guarantees a cold piece of fish full of bones, a steak so rare it moos (no matter how you order it), and a $100 tab for your trouble. 

Just a few miles down the road, Snellville and Duluth manage to pull off some great things (at least we have choices). But Lawrenceville...I'm thinking you'll never get it together.

One bonus, Lawrenceville: you're cheap.  Yaaaay for you.  Our house cost about six dollars. So that's nice.

Irrespective of our fair town, our fair neighborhood is even worse.  We had an incident a while back where a guy showed up and asked if we had an alarm system.  I'm like, hell yeah, we do and get the hell off my street!  He was with no discernable company or business.  He was in a car from Mississippi parked down the street.  I knew this because I put my running shoes on and went for a casual jog afterwards, carrying a sharpie and scrap of paper to jot down the tag info.  Shut up, I am not crazy. This crappy neighborhood should make me president of our miserable homeowner's association.  At the bare minimum, the title of watchdog extraordinaire.

Another time, I pop out of the bedroom after a shower, to see the Expert standing in the doorway, chatting it up with some "alarm guy" and I hit the roof.  Why are you talking to this guy about an alarm? Did he have an ADT shirt? What company did he represent???  [Insert one of the top ten biggest fights of our marriage here]. 

Tonight, I'm playing with the kids in the playroom (a/k/a a dining room converted to junk hole) and I hear a friendly knock-knock.  Thinking it's the Expert with his arms full of presents for day three of my birthday celebration (ha!), I open the door. 

White male, mid-twenties, 6'3'ish, black fleece, carrying a two liter of Coke.  Not even Diet Coke. I am immediately suspicious.

Idiot:     "Hey there lady, I just wanted to tell you about a neighborhood special we----"
Me:        (glancing at his two liter of Coke) "A neighborhood special? You have to be kidding me."
Idiot:     "Yeah, we are running a special where-----"
Me:        "No thanks, I am too busy for this."  And I motion to shut the door.

This guy steps towards me.  I make a mental note that he's not with Pizza Hut.  A Pizza Hut guy with a two liter makes a little sense.  And he didn't smell like pizza. I also make some sort of sick mental note that I can "take him."

My dad taught me to be a tough girl.  My dad also scolds me constantly, telling me that I'm going to get myself killed being a tough girl.  Irrespective of the sorority girl at the Georgia Theater in Athens who had it coming to her, I've never actually been in a real fight.

Yes, I have officially lost my mind, I admit.  I'm tired. I'm over these idiots in Atlanta.  But I am often thankful that I am not 100 pounds.  I complain about my size. Alot.  But I also like feeling that I am a size enough to at least put up a fight to doorway intruders. Maybe.

So this guy steps towards me, and I swing the door wide open and move towards him saying, "Look, I'm making dinner for my kids" (a bloody lie) "and I don't need this."  He mutters something I don't hear, and I slam the door in his face.  And I slam it hard. 

I wasn't scared in that moment because I knew this guy wasn't going to do anything (in that moment).  Instead, he was casing our house for another time.

Then I got scared.

That's what's going on here in Atlanta.  People going door to door, checking out who is home, what they've got inside, the cars in the driveway.  And it's not just Lawrenceville.  So I shouldn't hate Lawrenceville for that.

But I hate people for that.  How dare you make me feel insecure in my house?  Makes me spit nails.

I called the Expert, who was on his way home, and I told him that I'm going to start answering the door with the gun.  That way, these jackasses know what's inside.  A little preview into this crazy woman isn't enough. They have no idea how crazy I am.  Velcro rollers, my fat buns in a bathrobe and a handgun might help clarify things.

Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

In other news, our big boy James has retired the sippy cup.  I am proud.  And I am even proud of him slipping milk to Stella via the "big boy cup", even if it resulted in a spill-a-palooza on the chairs I once loved.

And the Expert and I managed a date night last night and saw the movie "RED".  Hilarious.  Highly recommend.

Happy weekend, ya'll.  It's almost over.  Awesome.

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