Litton Loan Mortgaging, our mortgage company, is being unhelpful buttheads — as usual.  While trying to work out exactly what’s going on with our loan, someone came to our door.

*knock knock*

Immediately Sirius, our dog, starts barking.  Loudly.  This is Sirius’s way of letting us know there’s a stranger around — after someone knocks on the door, he decides to bark.  Never before, always after.

Kidling, excited by the dog barking and the prospect of visitors, starts whooping through the house, screaming at the top of his lungs.

I stand up and walk to the door, thinking maybe it’s the mailman or a FedEx guy or something — I’m not expecting anybody, and I really don’t have time to deal with anyone.  I’m kind of trying to arrange to keep our home here.

It’s the mormon missionaries.

Normally, I’m polite and friendly to these guys.  My whole family is mormon, and my little sister is on a mission.  They’re just doing what they think is necessary.  So I smile, gesture to the phone pressed against my ear and the noise escalating in the background and say, “Not really a good time.”

“Oh, okay — but you’re Lana, right?  Lana D____?”

“Uh, yeah, but I can’t talk right now,” I say, attempting to close the door without shutting it in their face and being rude.  To the modification specialist I’m on the phone with, I say, “I’m so sorry, can you hold on just a minute?”

I look at the missionaries and say, “I really can’t talk, I’m busy trying to figure out my mortgage.”

“Right, right, but you’re mormon, right?  I mean, you used to come to church?”

“I’m an atheist,” I say, a little impatiently.  “I don’t do that anymore, and I really can’t talk right now.”

“Sure, sure, can we come by later?  I mean, when’s a better time to visit?”

I would like to point out at this juncture, dear reader, that the noise behind me had not lessened in the slightest.  The dog is almost howling at this point.  My son, delighted beyond belief that there are people at the door, is now hopping around the living room as well as whooping at the top of his lungs.  

We have wood laminate floors and a fairly open floor plan — it is echoing.  I can barely hear the two standing on our front porch, and I’m frankly quite embarrassed at the cacophony that must be seeping down the phone line.

“I cannot talk!”  I say as firmly as possible.  They don’t move, and their friendly, hopeful, open faces makes me feel guilty and horrible for being too busy to talk to them.  Reluctant to be rude and slam the door in their faces (stupid guilt!), I add, “Come back in three hours or something!”

I only answered the door because it was the most expedient way to get rid of whatever was exciting the dog and the kid.  Next time, I’ll just go out the back door and leave it.

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