The guy knocking on my front door in the middle of a weekday doesn’t seem like a Jehovah. Or Seventh Day Adventist. And it’s too early in the season for the disadvantaged teenagers hawking out-of-print magazines in 1000 degree heat or college kids indentured to knife companies or solar energy schemes. That’s probably why I answer the door. Maybe he needs help. Lost a dog. Or is a long-lost boyfriend and found me on Facebook. I
Dirty Job but Someone’s Got to Do It
One evening, (okay, perhaps more than just one) after dinner when the kids neglected, yet again, to clear the table, I lost it. “What’s your deal?” I yelled at no one in particular. Ranting and raving I went off on the deal we had, Dad and I cook, they set and clear. Simple, right? Yet they didn’t follow through, again, so I explained how I ask them to do a