Jesus where is a girl scout when you need one?

When my doorbell rang this morning at 11 I was startled to say the least. My house is at the end of the neighborhood and so few people go door to door now days. I thought it might be one of my rich redneck neighbors wanting me to pay my civic association dues or get me to come out and help with a spring clean up. I should mention that I am not a good neighbor. I was once, but after several fiascos at the monthly meetings both my husband and I have kept a low profile. Really, I was more than a little annoyed when an asshole from around the corner took it upon himself to cut all the trees along the road (which also happened to be my front yard).  It’s odd to me that no one saw the irony when another neighbor wanted to hire someone to kill the beaver that was living in our lake because it was, you know, cutting down trees. The final straw was the installation of a high wattage light right across the street because we refused to have it in our yard.  With all of our trees gone there was nothing to block the glaring light, so our telescope was relegated to the basement storage forever and we quit going to civic association meetings.

Since we have eliminated all but the most persistent of local yokels, I was braced for the worst. When I saw the ten year old with the older lady behind her I immediately thought oh, it must be Girl Scout cookie time again. Imagine my surprise when in a childish lisp she said, “Hello, my name is Amy and this is my friend Michelle. I want to invite you to attend a celebration of the death of Jesus Christ.” I wish I was quicker on my feet, really I do, but it’s times like this that I almost believe in God. One that is watching over me like Santa Clause and knew what I was doing in front of the computer when the buzz of the doorbell caught me off guard. I know TMI Thursday has passed so please don’t ask just use your imagination.

Now that a few hours have elapsed I have come up with so many things I could have said or done. I could have taken a picture. I could have accepted the proffered brochure and know what cult had captured this child and report them. I could have invited them in and called the police like I did when the asshole cut the trees in my yard. I didn’t do any of that however. I said, “I’m quite sure I don’t want to celebrate the death of Jesus Christ” and I shut the door. Damn, damn, my Southern Baptist kicks in at the worst times. I was horrified at the thought of celebrating the death of Jesus, especially when it came from the mouth of this innocent. On top of everything else wrong with my encounter, when I sit back down in front of the computer I realized something else was, if not dead, gasping for air. Nothing like a child talking about religion and death to get you out of a mood.  Damn I wish she’d been selling Girl Scout cookies. I could go for some Thin Mints right now.