I hate surprises. I hate to be startled. I hate surprise parties. I love to throw them, but I hate it when it’s for me, because I’m not prepared to make chit chat with all the people in my world who don’t know each other. It’s awkward and exhausting. Guess that’s why I hate the phone. Even with Caller ID, it can be a surprise and awkward, “What are you doing this Friday? Please come and do This Thing with Us Bozos and I know you’ll say yes, because I caught you OFF GUARD.”
So, you can imagine my chagrin, when the Loan Inspector Guy (we are refinancing again) shows up at my door (I forgot he was coming) and catches me…OFF GUARD. Yes, people. I was sound asleep. The dogs went bananas and jolted my out of bed and sent me staggering—uncaffeinated, mind you— downstairs.
I yank open the door and blink while a strange man recoils in terror. Poor slob. First of all, he had to put up with my uncombed hair and unbrushed teeth. Then, the dogs, who were not in their pen, jumped all over him and the young pup, who we are still potty training, made a welcoming wee-wee and doo-doo.
Then, Loan Inspector Guy, who is battling his fear and horror, asks if he can go through the house and PHOTOGRAPH IT for THE RECORDS that will go down in the annals of ALL TIME! So, he proceeds to take pictures of my piles of dishes (it’s Pillsbury Bake-Off season) in the kitchen, my piles of laundry in the laundry room (did I mention it’s Pillsbury Bake-Off season?), the pile of bills on my desk (again, Pillsbury) and the welcoming piles of doo-doo.
The Loan Inspector Guy left my house with a serious case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Man, I hope we get than re-fi.