I guess because my area of expertise is geriatric cognitive functioning (the way old people's thinking skills work - or don't), The Girl and I have lots of conversations about what our lives will be like when we're old. People in our family get really old - like knocking on the door of 100 old, so we probably have loads of time left on our hands and it's fun to talk about what our lives might be like when we get there.
We're both planning to stick around until we're at least 112. She's going to die from a freak bungee-jumping accident. Of course I'll be shot in bed with someone else's spouse or something to that effect. I told her she'd better make a boatload of money because I intend to get kicked out of every nursing home in Texas. She informed me the other day that she wants to be, "The mean old bitch on the front porch waving a shotgun screaming, 'Get off my lawn you little brats!' and scaring the shit out of all the neighbor kids." That's my girl. *beaming proudly*
What she doesn't know is that I am already that crazy old woman.
Case in point: Yesterday afternoon.
A beat to hell old green Ford Taurus with half the paint missing pulls up in front of the house. Mind you, we live in the boonies and it is necessary to drive about 75 yards down the driveway to get in front of the house from the road, so his visit was clearly intentional. A preoccupied-looking young man, approximately college age, debarks the "vehicle" with a spiral notebook and a backpack in hand.
Not waiting for him to approach the door, I meet him on the front walk with a cold unwavering stare, "Can I help you?"
He: (looking up, startled) Oh, you scared me.
Me: (maintaining intense eye contact that could have bored holes through him throughout the conversation) Yes. I'm supposed to.
He: You must be the official mom of the house.
Me: Yes. Attack Mom to be precise. What do you want?
He: Well, I'm here with a company that's been working with the local school district for some books for the kids...
Me: Which one? (the farm borders 2)
He: Uhh...the local...
Me: You don't even know where the hell you are, do you? If the school wants my kids to have something, they'll let me know. They won't send someone to my house. You can leave now.
Me: I didn't stutter. I don't want whatever it is. You'd best leave. Now.
He: (looking concerned) Do you have a gun back there? (apparently I had one hand behind my back)
Me: I might. (growling) Now get the fuck out.
He: (retreating ot his car) You must not get very many Asians out here...
Honestly, I hadn't noticed an ethnicity. Although I was raised that way, I don't think that way anymore. The problem was not that he was Asian but that he was an unannounced somebody interrupting my workflow and thereby pissing me off - now doubly pissed off and wishing I had brought my pistol out with me once he pulled the fucking race card. Gaaah!
Me: We don't get very many anybody out here unless they have the manners to call first. That's why we like it here. Nobody BOTHERS us.
Door to door anybody bugs the shit out of me. Dammit, if I want religion I'll pick a church & go there (yeah, right), if I want just about anything else, I'll get it online, trot my ass down to the store, or make it my damn self. I don't give a shit who you are. Don't fucking bother me! Showing up at my house or calling me out of the blue at dinnertime is the best damn way I know of to ensure your company does NOT get my business. Matter of fact, showing up unannounced out here in the sticks is a real good way to get yourself shot - or at least scared shitless.