I have been dragging my heels about blogging: The kind, patient lady who designs web sites for me keeps gently nudging me and saying, "Now would be a good time to blog."
So I find myself wanting to write about something I hate talking about: Yesterday afternoon our front doorbell rang. No big deal; it was a Saturday afternoon, perfect for a pick-up game of baseball in the park across the street. Yet, I hesitated. I hesitated because I looked like crap having been bedridden for a couple of days. But I thought the better of it and opened the door. The neighborhood boys don't seem to notice when you're looking like crap.
There stood the sweetest, freshest virginal nubile teenage girls. They smelled perfumed. They wore pastel eyeliner and freckles. They were darling.
"Hi," I said gruffly looking a lot like Baby Jane Hudson.
They tittered and said nothing. "What can I do for you?" I continued.
And they whispered in unison, "Is Paul there?"
Paul is my forty-seven-year-old married rock star husband.
"Who should I say is calling?" I asked, not knowing what else to say or do, not wanting to help or hurt them.
"Fans," they sputtered.
And this is the part where I'm not sure what to do because I'm bombarded with so many options; do I slam the door? Call the police? Tell them they're invading our privacy? Call a realtor? Go find Paul and make him deal with it? I don't react quickly or well to challenges so I stepped outside feeling like I looked like I had a colostomy bag hanging from my hip, and said, "You guys, it's not cool to come up to the house. This is where we live with our child. We should be able to be private here. It scares our son when he thinks that strangers know where we live."
I wish I could've invited them in for lemonade and been as kind as can be, and pulled out our family photo albums...no, actually, I don't. I know that however I react to this situation, I'll be perceived as a bitch. Just being in my position makes me a bitch whether I am or not. And I know I can be. For sure.
I'm grateful he has fans. I have a very nice life because of it. But that doesn't mean you get to come to the house to discuss the matter. I'll tell you sometime about the soccer dad who came to the front door with his terrified-looking daughter.
