NO SOLICITORS...for your own good

I don't know why, but we get a lot of solicitors at our house. It's annoying. In our old house, it was Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses; here, it's window salesmen. Four of them over the past five months. After today however, we may be seeing less of them. Or more, depending on how the poor kid feels about his experience. It was one of those days when I just rolled out of bed and headed straight for the French press, unable to form coherent thoughts until I had two cups of coffee in my system. After that, things just kept happening and I never made it out of my pajamas. It was a little chilly, so I threw a cardigan over my pj tank top and continued cleaning the house in my fuzzy Christmas pj pants. A few hours later, still in my pajamas, there was a knock at the door. Baby in hand, I answered it. A teen-aged boy was standing in the rain, trying to sell me windows. I explained that we're going to replace our windows, but not for a few more years so please don't come back until then. Undeterred, the young lad asked if he could come back next week and give me a demonstration. "Seriously, we're not replacing the windows for a while. Our kitchen is ugly, we have no bedroom; windows are not a priority." "Can I call you in a few years?" "I hate phone calls; mail me something." During our pointless exchange, the young man kept smiling at me spontaneously, mid-sentence and then pulling a straight face. I thought it was because Matteas was making eyes at him, but when I stood in front of the bathroom mirror later I realized it might have been on account of the 1 1/2" of cleavage at the top of my sweater, the zipper of which had snuck down quite a bit since this morning. That reminds me of an old joke: If a solicitor comes to your door and asks to see your boobs for research purposes, don't show him your boobs; he is not a researcher, he's JUST TRYING TO SEE YOUR BOOBS. I wish I'd thought of that joke earlier.