After a very long 4 hours of looking EVERYWHERE in my house for an envelope containing many pages of important information and totally NOT finding that envelope I sat down at my dining table with my laptop to find some solace in the internets.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door…

There’s something you should know about me, 90% of the time when someone knocks on my door my reaction is “WHAT THE HELL” or something similar though slightly more vulgar. The exception is when I’m expecting someone, and then I’m only 30% likely to freak out when I hear someone at the door. Like the other day when a friend said she was stopping by at 5 to drop something off and she stopped by at 5 almost on the button but I was lost in a world of my own creation and couldn’t figure out why anyone could possibly be standing on my front porch knocking on my door… Anyway back to it.

There was a knock at my door and I wasn’t expecting anyone so I jumped about a foot out of my chair and turned to look out the window. There’s a window in my door which is nice because I can see out, but equally crummy because they can see in.  When I looked out the window I saw a Picassoesque version of a short gray haired man standing there. I’ve been known to yell at people I don’t know through the door.  I really took that whole “Don’t talk to strangers” thing that was always preached when I was a kid, to heart.  But he had a badge on his shirt that I couldn’t read through the rippled glass and the street was full of passers by so I opened the door slowly, cautiously, just a couple of inches.

Luckily it was the glass panels that gave him the Picasso look.

He waited patiently for me to say hello and then introduced himself, extended a piece of paper.

Census guy…

Oh no OH NO oh no!  The census guy.  My mind races.  When census people ask you stuff aren’t you required by law to answer them.  Don’t you have to tell them stuff.  Can’t they make you fill out long painful multiple choice tests causing you two weep aloud because damn it, no one wants to do that?

He must of seen my moment of panic or sensed that I was about to slam the door and hide under a table because he quickly, though calmly, stated that he had only one question for me.

“Does your home have a separate living space?”

Could it really be that easy?  All he wanted to know was if we had an apartment or mother in law quarters in our home.  Really.

“No” I said.

“Thanks” he replied.

I closed the door.  I locked it.  I turned the bolt. That was it.

In a fit of relief that it was over and done with I sat down at my computer to read a couple of tweets and then scampered off to take a shower.  By the time I got out I had just enough time to look in 10 more places I had only searched once for that elusive envelope (remember the envelope I was looking for).  At the very last minute before I had to pick K up from school I found it in my laptop bag.  Oh what a moment of relief.  I was so overjoyed that I almost completely forgot about the census man…

I shared my joyous envelope finding news with Mike on the phone and then rushed to the door.  That’s when it happened…  I touched my door to open it and put my hand on a wet sticky gooey spot.  Beneath my doorknob.  On the inside of my door.

WHAT THE HELL WAS IT??? HOW DID IT GET THERE????

I have no idea, and even though I am quite certain that the census guy never came in the house or touched my door except to knock on it, I’m fairly certain he’s responsible…

Because really, who knocks on my door in the afternoon when I’m looking for an important document that isn’t trying to cause trouble?