I had a rough day last Sunday. I was sick, I was tired, I was jacked up on Allegra-D, Flonase and some little, white allergy pill that my always questionable doctor put in an unmarked envelope and shoved into my purse during my last visit. I just didn’t know what to do.
I tried baking and burned my finger. I tried walking and stubbed my toe. I tried reading and got a paper cut. Finally, I tried writing and pretty much just embarrassed myself:
The Modern Version of “The Cobbler’s Children Have No Shoes”
By Wendi Aarons
The Plastic Surgeon’s Children Have No Implants!!
In short, I was an antihistamine riddled nightmare, so I decided to just give up on life and go watch Bridalplasty on E! instead. If you haven’t seen Bridalplasty, it’s probably because you’re one of those huge snobs who has “taste” and “standards” when it comes to your TV viewing since this is definitely the best show about future brides competing to win plastic surgery operations that I’ve ever seen.
(My internal monologue while watching Bridalplasty:
Why am I watching this crap? What is wrong with me? I should put on something more intelligent. Like Tom & Jerry. Or that infomercial about growing tomatoes for fun and profit. But since the remote’s all the way over there, I guess I’ll just have to see who wins this week’s challenge. Sigh. It’s such a shame these women are so shallow and not as concerned about their souls as they are about their look…Oh, COME ON, Cheyenne! You’re never going to win that surgery to shorten your second toe if you don’t play dirty! THINK, you big nosed moron! THINK!)
The cosmos must have sensed that I needed divine intervention right about then because the doorbell suddenly rang and there, standing on my Halloween-themed welcome mat that I use year round, were two of my Arch Nemesi. No, not the usual Girl Scout menace, but the Jehovah Witnesses. Who never even offer to get you addicted to cookies.
Now, let me very strongly state that I don’t care at all about someone’s religion—I am 100% Live and Let Live and even used to be good friends with a Wiccan until she stole my Bananarama CD and used it in the love ritual she performed on the altar in her condo. Plus I’m sure the Jehovahs must be very nice people or else Michael Jackson wouldn’t have joined them.
When I was 17-years-old and living with my parents, a group of JWs—a skinny man, a skinny woman and a sickly little boy wearing a newsboy cap so he looked straight out of Central Casting —would come by our house once a week to try to convince me to join their church. I was too nice and naive back then to give them the bum’s rush, plus we didn’t have a front window to look through before opening the door, so I’d always get stuck listening to their rap and taking one of their informative pamphlets. By the end of the summer, not only did I have a stack of JW literature about two inches thick, but I also had a growing interest in how to best install security cameras and trip wires on a one-story house.
Fortunately, my problem with them was solved when I went 500 miles away to college a few weeks later. There were no cell phones or emails back then, so the only way you could keep in touch with friends and family was through long distance phone calls and letters (yes, I’m 99 years old), which is why, when I found a thick, handwritten letter waiting for me in my dormitory mail box one day, I was thrilled. At least, I was until I started reading it and realized it was from the skinny Jehovah’s Witness woman who’d tried her best to convert me all summer. “I sure hope you’re doing good,” the letter said in her looping scrawl, “your younger sister was kind enough to give me your college address! Wasn’t that sweet?! Hope you’ve been thinking about our teachings! Here, let me go over them again…”
I got one letter a month from her until school ended that spring. Once she even sent me a drawing of a horse that I hung up in my friend’s room because she liked animals.
So that’s why, when I saw the two smiling ladies on my porch last weekend, I immediately panicked. I didn’t want my life to turn into another marathon recruiting session. I didn’t want to encourage them. And while I was pretty sure they weren’t as zealous as my skinny friend, I really didn’t want them writing me letters in their spare time. (Although, I do still like to get mail.) But was I now mature enough to politely decline their offer? Was I assertive enough to let them know I mean business? Was I evil enough to give them my younger sister’s email, home address and social security number just to finally get some well-deserved payback? As it turned out, none of those things even mattered.
Because once those two well-meaning ladies got a good look at my red, runny nose and my glazed eyes, and once I began babbling about cobblers, white pills, and whether or not Janessa really needed a tummy tuck to fit into her wedding dress, they immediately knew they were barking up the wrong drugged-up tree.
“Would you…” one of them halfheartedly said as she clutched her pamphlets to her chest and slowly began backing away. “Be interested…”
“No, I really wouldn’t!” I slurred while sloppily shutting the door. “And as I’m sure you can see, that’s probably best for all of us. Whee!” Then I hiked up my sweatpants, went back to the couch, turned on Bridalplasty and gave myself a pat on the back. Because at least I’d finally succeeded at doing something that day.
Even if it meant I probably wouldn’t be getting any more horse pictures in the mail.