When you’re first married, on a typical weekend, you sleep until 10 a.m., wake up, make coffee, and go back to sleep. Imagine my surprise when my husband violated our ritual and decided to answer the door.
When it comes to the doorbell, my husband’s like Pavlov’s dog. He can’t stand to ignore it.
“Leave it,” I said, patting my hair. “They’ll go away. Besides, I’m not decent.”
He rushed to the door, slid to a stop in stocking feet, and pulled it open, bare chest and all.
Did you NOT hear a single word I said? Let me be more clear. If you answer the door, hell will rain down on you.
I peeked around the corner, my slovenly appearance blocked by his body. Two unknown people stood outside my front door. I could tell by their formal attire, the man wearing a blue blazer with a collared shirt, the woman in a long dress with kitten heels, that it was church people from the Church of I-Want-to-Ruin-Your-Sundays.
My husband yanked the door opened, his half-nakedness exposed, much to the delight of the neighbors, and welcomed the visitors into our living room.
“Stacey, come out,” he shouted as I attempted to bolt upstairs. “Someone’s here to see us.”
I crept forward, wearing Betty Boop pajamas and fuzzy slippers. They took a seat and introduced themselves as Sue and Ron. They launched into incredible details about their church; it’s location, philosophy, yadda yadda. At one point, they asked, “You have any questions?”
My husband said, “What’s the difference between the Catholic and Lutheran Churches?”
Hey Mr. Man, what’s the big idea asking such a loaded question? I’m out of here the first chance I get.
They responded with the enthusiasm of a kid chewing a 12-hour jawbreaker with a sour candy center. “Back in 1571, Martin Luther…” and droned on and on, covering 445 years in three hours.
This is gonna take a while.
My husband had a history of asking leading questions of strangers, neighbors, and relatives. Once at Christmas, he asked my grandmother to tell him the story of her childhood. That led to a five-hour discussion. Even my grandfather skipped out.
“Mike, you’re on your own,” Grandpa said, bouncing off the sofa like he was on fire. “I’m getting rum punch. Will. Not. Be. Back.”
About midway through our “conversation” with the church folks, my husband made a move to escape. You know what I mean; he placed his hands on the edge of the divan and tried to rise.
“Hey buddy,” I hissed. “Sit back down. You opened the door.”
Then right before they left, they paused and asked me, “Do you have any questions?”
“Do you mind calling first the next time?”
I am going to hell.
With that, they grabbed their pamphlets and scattered faster than ants at a church picnic.
– Stacey Gustafson
Stacey Gustafson’s book, Are You Kidding Me? My Life With an Extremely Loud Family, Bathroom Calamities, and Crazy Relatives, ranked #1 Amazon Best Seller in Parenting & Family Humor. She’s an author, blogger and comedian who has experienced the horrors of being trapped inside a pair of SPANX. Her short stories have appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul and other publications. Her awards include Erma Bombeck Humor Writer of the Month, semi-finalist in the 2015 Kindle Book Awards, and 2nd place in the 2015 Toastmaster’s Humorous Speech contest. Her husband and two teenagers provide an endless supply of inspiration. Visit StaceyGustafson.com and Twitter @RUKiddingStacey.