Wednesday, March 29, 2017

Knock Knock

The evening began like most others. I arrived home from work, let the dogs out to the back yard to do their business, then back inside to eat. I went upstairs to change into my favorite couch potato fleece pants -- the ones with reindeers wearing sweaters. While hanging my skirt in the closet, I saw all the other stuff hanging there--a mile of stuff, most of which I love, and most of which doesn't fit anymore. I remembered my favorite store was having a one day only, 40 per cent off dress sale and put my skirt back on. It was time to break routine and not sit on the couch eating all night, which is the reason most of my extensive wardrobe doesn't fit.

The new evening plan meant the need for a quick supper.  As I was standing in my blissfully quiet kitchen, dining in a rather unrefined manner on a freshly poured  bowl of cereal with orange juice, there was a knock on the front door. This really was going to be a different kind of night. In seven months, not once has anybody who was not already  expected knocked on the door.

The dogs immediately launched into protector mode, barking and running to the door. When I'm expecting someone, the dogs go into the kitchen behind the gate to prevent the battle charge.

Through the most hated feature of the front door I can't wait to replace I could see a figure. Thanks to the center glass panel, I knew my unexpected visitor could also see me, leaving no graceful way to not answer the door. Dang, I hate that freeking door. My vertically challenged visitor was wearing an orange parka with the hood up, and my first thought was that Kenny from South Park had come for a visit.

I opened the door and tried to calm the dogs. Meanwhile, the young face in the center of the orange hood says "Are you our new neighbor?" I said "I've been here since September ..." And he says, "I've never seen you before."

Then he turns his back to me, walks across the enclosed porch, opens the door, which the dogs immediately try to exit, and he leaves, while I'm stammering, "Don't let the dogs out."

Once outside, lookalike Kenny, whose name I don't know, takes a right, walks across the poop splattered front lawn (poop pick up tool broke), and climbs between the rails of my fence to my driveway where his two buddies are standing.

And I'm standing there wondering what the whole interaction was about. It was more of an abbreviated interrogation than an introduction. The best I can come up with is that maybe I'm the new neighborhood dare -- the house with the weird older lady, and the bigger boys dared lookalike Kenny to come into porch and knock on the door.

"New, solid front door with peephole" just launched itself to the top of the home "to do" list. Right behind "buy some dresses."