A couple of church ladies dropped by our house tonight. Mike had on more clothing than I did, so the door answering fell to him. I hid in the kitchen wondering who on earth would be ringing our doorbell at 8:30 pm on a Sunday.
Mike let them in. As he hustled the barking dogs out the back door, he asked what I wanted to do.
When our surprise guests showed up, I was wearing my bathrobe. Only my bathrobe. Not exactly attire for a social call.
I told Mike I didn't want to talk to them. I hoped they weren't far enough in the house to see me in the kitchen silently wishing them gone.
I overheard them chatting with Mike about the house and joking about "not telling" me about the plate of brownies they'd brought. Finally, they left.
I don't know what makes Mormons so mannerless. If they were dropping by because they were unable to reach me by phone, that's one thing. More often than not, there's no courtesy call preceding the drop-in visit. People just show up and expect that you'll be happy to see them, no matter how ill-timed or unannounced the visit. And don't think bringing brownies gets you off the hook; it's still rude.
When they interrupt my lazy evening of cuddling with mi esposo in my bathrobe and making an apple crisp between new episodes True Blood and Mad Men, don't assume I'll be happy about it.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
Well, someone had to do it.
A week off wasn't really enough down time after the August Symposium, so I worked from home* on Monday. (* = in this instance, I lolled around in my PJs all day, caught up on recreational blog reading, and played lots of solitaire).
I arrived at the office Tuesday morning, unpacked my gear, and tackled the most pressing post-symposium tasks. About an hour later, I headed to the loo.
The normally-white toilet seat wasn't. That's weird, I thought. Looked further and saw evidence of a gastric explosion elsewhere. Yetch. I fled to the upstairs restroom to take care of nature's call.
Afterward, I asked the office manager what had happened to the downstairs loo? She said a constituent had come in Monday to make a purchase and abruptly disappeared into the restroom for a long time. There was a fierce stench and when the constituent finally emerged, the person left the office in haste.
The office manager apparently closed the restroom door and told Mike and others in the office Monday that they might want to use the upstairs loo instead--and said she forgot all about it until I asked. Convenient.
I set to work cleaning the toilet seat, the toilet front/base, toilet bowl, and floors. The constituent had clearly done some work, too, as evidenced by the wet mop and used paper towels. But there was more to clean before I would be willing to use this loo myself or make it available to the public.
As I was scrubbing, I recalled a friend's blog post wherein she put an odious service task into perspective by calling it "cleaning for Jesus." You can read her story here: http://mamaheather.blogspot.com/2008/07/service-with-smile.html
That recollection shifted my view of the task: I was scrubbing up remnants of an epic gastric blow for Jesus. It wasn't fun, but it was a task that needed to be done and it appeared I was the only one who would step up and do it.
It was also an exercise in compassion. Who among us hasn't been far away from their own toilet in a moment of gastric distress? It's bad enough when you're home and much worse to have happen in public--much less in the presence of people who know you.
In any case, I'm armed with a mantra that helps me serve others a little more gamely than I would otherwise. Still, I hope "cleaning for Jesus" is NOT a mantra I'll have to use again soon.
I arrived at the office Tuesday morning, unpacked my gear, and tackled the most pressing post-symposium tasks. About an hour later, I headed to the loo.
The normally-white toilet seat wasn't. That's weird, I thought. Looked further and saw evidence of a gastric explosion elsewhere. Yetch. I fled to the upstairs restroom to take care of nature's call.
Afterward, I asked the office manager what had happened to the downstairs loo? She said a constituent had come in Monday to make a purchase and abruptly disappeared into the restroom for a long time. There was a fierce stench and when the constituent finally emerged, the person left the office in haste.
The office manager apparently closed the restroom door and told Mike and others in the office Monday that they might want to use the upstairs loo instead--and said she forgot all about it until I asked. Convenient.
I set to work cleaning the toilet seat, the toilet front/base, toilet bowl, and floors. The constituent had clearly done some work, too, as evidenced by the wet mop and used paper towels. But there was more to clean before I would be willing to use this loo myself or make it available to the public.
As I was scrubbing, I recalled a friend's blog post wherein she put an odious service task into perspective by calling it "cleaning for Jesus." You can read her story here: http://mamaheather.blogspot.com/2008/07/service-with-smile.html
That recollection shifted my view of the task: I was scrubbing up remnants of an epic gastric blow for Jesus. It wasn't fun, but it was a task that needed to be done and it appeared I was the only one who would step up and do it.
It was also an exercise in compassion. Who among us hasn't been far away from their own toilet in a moment of gastric distress? It's bad enough when you're home and much worse to have happen in public--much less in the presence of people who know you.
In any case, I'm armed with a mantra that helps me serve others a little more gamely than I would otherwise. Still, I hope "cleaning for Jesus" is NOT a mantra I'll have to use again soon.
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