January 28 - Thursday

So yesterday I was trying to type in an entry about these anemones I planted, and how it's been unseasonably warm here, and how the first anemone bloomed, and how it looks like an indigo wild rose, and how I can't pass by it in its pot on the porch without caressing it and telling it that I love it... but then my keyboard froze and I had to just delete it all. Oh, well.

But don't think about that now. Something else happened yesterday that I want to talk about. (About which I want to talk. Whatever.)

Yesterday someone knocks on my door and of course I'm in mid-diaper-change (on the baby, not myself - duh) and I have to hurry and clean the baby and then run to the door and I just KNOW it's someone I don't want to talk to. And I'm thinking I'll just get rid of the someone and then hurry back and put the baby's diaper on before anything tragic happens. So I go answer it, and it's this guy and he goes, "Gwen?" And I look at him, and he's this tall skinny white guy in a brown suit and maybe a cream-colored shirt and some kind of yellow/navy/brown tie, and I don't know who the hell he is, and I go, "Yes?" And he's like, "Hi, I'm Rusty Perkins. I came by and talked to you last week?" And I still don't know, and meanwhile the baby is trying to run out the partially opened door, so I'm trying to hold him back with my leg. And then Rusty goes, "Or maybe I talked to your husband..." And I'm like, "Yeah, you must have, because I don't know who you are." And I'm thinking, "Thanks a LOT, Paul, for giving this guy my name."

So then the two older kids start fighting over a ball or a plastic sword or something, and the baby's all wiley, trying to crawl under my leg and run outside and show the neighborhood his genitals, and I'm going, "Hey! Y'all quit that!" and I'm contorting myself in all these combinations to keep the baby at bay, and Rusty goes, "Do you have a few minutes?" And I tell him, "Not really." And he starts doing his spiel, talking about accidents and diseases, and for a sec I thought he was ambulance-chasing and I interrupted and said, "Are you a lawyer?" and he said no, insurance. And I say we already have life insurance, and he says this is a special kind of insurance for cancer or other heinous diseases or something, and he's talking, and I'm not even able to listen coz of the kids, and finally I'm like, "Well, I don't even have a job, and I don't know what my husband told you, but if he wants to spend his money on this insurance, you're gonna need to talk to him about it. Why don't you just call later and talk to him?"

Coz I can totally see my husband talking to this guy on the phone and being all Mr. Pushover and telling this guy he can come to our house to talk about it in person. And I'm not sure if my husband was thinking, "He'll show up when Gwen's here and she'll get rid of him," or if he was thinking, "I really need cancer insurance!" or if he was thinking, "Let me be on Polite Auto-Pilot while I'm listening to Enigma and working on Blasting Violence XII." All I know is that, while I have nothing personal against door-to-door salesmen, I really don't like being visited by people who haven't called first. And there is no way in hell I would ever purchase anything from one of these people unless it was fattening foods for a PTA fundraiser. Or if it was something really cool that I actually buy on a regular basis. But how often does that happen? Never, right? Remember in the old days, when there were travelling peddlars who sold fabric and pots and pans and stuff? I don't remember that either, but I've read about it and it sounds cool.

And another thing: sometimes I get tired of being the heavy in this marriage. Actually, that's a lie. I don't really get tired of it. But I'm always wary. I imagine that people are watching our house at all hours of the day. Those travelling meat salesmen in their little white trucks are watching and saying, "Okay, the husband's home... he's good for seven pounds of shrimp and four steaks... if we can just get there at the right time... okay! Go! Go! The bathroom light's on! The wife's in the bathroom! Hurry, hurry, before her bitchy ass can come out and start asking about net weight!"

So everyone in the neighborhood and in the sales industry thinks I'm a bitch. But ask me if I care.
(I don't.)
But it's not always true, you know. Sometimes I secretly care. Like this guy Rusty Perkins... he breaks my heart, in a way. Did he never read Death of a Salesman? Does he really like his job? Can he ever make a living without insinuating himself through someone's doorway and playing on their fears and manners until he makes a sale?

He gave me his card, and under his name it says "Lt. Colonel, USAF (RET)." Like that's gonna make me want to buy insurance. It doesn't. It just makes me sadder for this guy, and even that sadness doesn't tempt me to part from my husband's hard-earned cash. But I did spend several minutes trying to think of a better job for this guy. Almost any job would be better, but only a few of the ones he could get would be as dignified, I guess. I could see him working at one of those stores in the mall that sells globes or suitcases, but they'd have to forward him enough salary to get a new suit. Then I was thinking that maybe he could sell stuff on the Internet, so at least he wouldn't have to walk around all day, but then I saw that if he stayed home, he would probably just sit there in a ratty undershirt and boxers, staring at the computer screen and thinking of the good old days, and then he'd probably start drinking and then eventually he'd kill himself or just sadly die in his computer chair. So that's no good. The sun and the occassional anemone are probably what's keeping this guy alive.

Eventually I had to stop myself and clean up the baby's accident and threaten my other kids with Nintendo-privilege-withdrawal and go on with my life. But if anybody in the Austin area wants to hire Rusty for a decent job, send me an email and I'll send you his phone number, okay?