Yesterday morning I turned on Dora the Explorer and snuck downstairs to get dressed. The kids had been fed and were in a Dora coma so I figured I had about five minutes to put on pants and possibly make my hair look a little less like I had just stepped out of a wind tunnel.
You’d think by now I would know better. Some people never learn.
I was halfway dressed when I heard a ruckus. It wasn’t a “I just chopped off part of my finger in a door” ruckus, but it sounded like it did require my urgent attention. So, I dashed up the stairs halfway dressed.
Allow me to paint this picture for you: I was wearing the loudest bra in the history of the world. My mother thinks that I only like clothing items in colors unknown to man until the invention of Day Glo. So, when she goes on trips she likes to get me obnoxiously bright souvenirs. What’s a better souvenir for your grown daughter than a black and metallic silver bra with fuchsia lace trim? I can’t really complain. What it lacks in subtlty, it makes up for in support. It molds everything in to pleasant shapes so, I like it.
So, I am wearing that bra along with my embarrassingly bright girly boxers. They are pink, green, orange, and blue plaid with completely mismatched flower print trim. Okay, maybe my mom’s assessment of my taste is accurate. Also, large fuzzy slippers adorn my feet and my hair was still, as usual, doing its best impression of a marmot.
I dashed in to the living room and smacked straight in to a Jehovah’s Witness.
And that was when we broke the record for fastest retreat of a Jehovah’s Witness ever. He didn’t even leave a pamphlet.
Well, on the plus side, I am pretty sure we will never be visited by missionaries ever again. If there is a Jehovah’s Witness Black List, we’re on it. For sure.