I can think of few things worse than the drop-in visit.
The complete stranger drop-in visit has got to be the most dreaded of all. I think I would rather drink Drano than be subjected to one.
Unfortunately, it was during just such a visit this week by a seemingly very nice ward missionary that I found myself channeling my Mother. Yes, the Mother that I may have once or twice mentioned was nuttier than a cheese log.
I'm puttering around the house bra-less, as I am wont to be on the days when convention and fear of arrest haven't forced me into one. I am wearing an exceedingly nasty shirt that I had donned when I was browning the meat for dinner. The thing is full of holes and is covered in grease spots. I had been wearing a hat all day and my hair looked like rats had been nesting in it. When there is a knock on the door and I am in that state, I usually make a run for the bedroom but no, this time the door is for me.
Also keep in mind that Thomas and his bad arm and leg had been to the physical therapist and consequently all three were laying on the air mattress in the middle of the living room. Sam and his sprained ankle are wallowing the couch. And due to the fact that I have been running from project to project for weeks, it looks like a giant had eaten a whole scrapbook store and promptly thrown up on every available surface in the house.
This is where I am supposed to pretend to only speak Portuguese and shut the door.
No, my cold-oatmeal quick brain and I sidle past the air mattress and stand on the doorstep while this poor woman starts her welcome to the ward isn't it lovely to finally meet you do you like Draper we'd love to see you at church one fine morning spiel. I looked down at my hands, (still holding the t-shirt I am wrapping in elastic bands in order to tie-dye it for Suzie) and...turned into my Mother.
Not the nice lady that hands out birthday money and would tickle your back until her hand falls off.
The one that always seems to develop a severe case of oral diarrhea when she is within 5 feet of anyone she doesn't know very well(or at all) that has at least 40% of their hearing left. Usually the worst symptom of this involves sharing things with said person that you shouldn't and wouldn't tell your court appointed therapist.
At this point I touched my hair, realized that I must look like a meth addict coming off of a three day bender and just started into reasons why I didn't invite her in, why I didn't go to church here, about Sam's ankle, the fact that I had 2 divorced sisters, Thomas' whole left side and why I had browned the meat for the stew I was making for dinner. By the time I realized that I had been giving her a perfect crazy Jean impression, I got a little dizzy and may have even blacked out for a minute because the rest of the conversation is kind of a blur. I may or may not have given her my social security number and told her about that week in Jr. High when I ate nothing but french fries and pink sauce at lunch. Regardless, I am certain that Sister-What's-Her-Name backed away from the doorway with a funny look on her face and the certainty in her heart that I should in no way be allowed near normal people or her children.
It's no comfort at all to tell me that this was bound to happen eventually. Or that genetics always win out in the end. Try telling that to my children as they decide whether or not they can contain the damage by putting out the word that I am officially nuttier than squirrel poo or if it's already too late.
Damn you genetics.
All door answering will henceforth be done in the form of folded notes slid under the door and smoke signals only.