Our doorbell just rang and when I went to answer it there were two young people, a girl and a boy around 17 or 18 years old, bouncing slightly on the balls of their feet and dresed in rather tight jeans. They made a remark or two about how odd our house was (because apparently I wanted to know their opinion) then launched into a sales pitch loaded with over-the-top pseudo confidence and slick, pre-packaged jokes designed to "loosen me up."
I've had this happen before and I knew exactly what they were doing. They were selling something, and the routines always start with an introduction to some group they're a part of (usually one I've never heard of) followed by how they're supposed to go around and "talk" to people for practice in some communication skill they're trying to develop.
Now I'm a pretty reasonable--some might even go so far as to say nice--person. But I'm not stupid. They were selling something and the only thing that kept me at the door was the entertainment of watching them try to be as smooth and winsome as the people they'd seen on television in hopes that I'd be putty in their hands. Because I'm only a housewife, right? I ought to be an easy sell.
They tried the chit chat ("What does your husband do for a living?" "How many kids do you have?" etc. etc.) they tried to high five me (no joke) but finally they hit the punch line. They were selling magazines, the typical drug of choice, and if I already had my earthly share I was welcome to buy subscriptions for someone who may not be blessed to have
Snowboarder World in their life. Such as perhaps a poor homeless Sudanese refugee?
"I'm sorry but I'm not interested."
They tried more pleas and "Come on, we're on our way to a trip to Paris--I bet you've been to Paris already"
"Actually no, I haven't."
"Well we've got more points than anyone else and we're about to win that trip. You don't want to keep us from Paris do you?"
Heaven forbid. Because it's written in the rules somewhere that every kid should see Paris before they complete a semester of college. I'm sure it's there somewhere and my parents just didn't read that part of the instruction manual.
The young man tried one more line of "Pretty pleases" but I wasn't budging on this one. If I've cut out my children's piano lessons (see yesterday's post) then I'm not buying
Animé Unleashed from someone on my doorstep who brags about having once met a Playboy bunny (oh, did you miss that part of the conversation? Too bad, because it was
precious).
"Look, I'm not interested," I said, then added what I had hoped was a kind let-down, "My husband just started up a business and everything we have is going into that. I'm sure you'll understand, maybe you'll have the chance to do something like that for yourself someday."
To which he replied (and I quote): "
I doubt it. I don't really like to work very hard."
And they turned and walked away while I picked my jaw up off the front step.
Hey, at least he's honest. I figure for the amount of time he's spent panhandling from my neighbors he probably could have got a real job and earned enough for several trips to Europe. With or without a Playboy bunny.
Good luck, Sonny, you're going to need it.
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