Yesterday some young Mormons knocked on my door. Two young men, slightly sweaty in their pants and ties, were looking so earnestly at the door that I opened it. I was polite and chatty with them, because after an ill-fated attempt in door-to-door environmental donations ( I lasted three days), I have sympathy for anyone going door-to-door.
But naturally they took my mention of Mormon friends and questions about where they were from (Utah and Texas) as a sign that I was looking to be converted. And we all know that's never going to happen.
But instead of explaining that I'm an Unitarian (home of what Hot Guy calls "cover-your-ass Christianity", or even just turning them down flat, I told them that I was a pagan. And I enjoyed the shocked looks on the young men's faces as they realized the nicest woman they'd met all day was a complete heathen. I lied and I liked it.
And then today, as if messing with Mormons wasn't evil enough, I accidentally on purpose lost Ironflower's kazoo. Most of the time, my children's music doesn't faze me. Ironflower can sing "Farmer in the Dell" a thousand times (especially when she sings, "The farmer takes a life, the farmer takes a life" instead of "the farmer takes a wife") and Lovebug can beat on the drums for hours and I don't care. I don't even mind most of their kazoos. But the little orange was driving me crazy this morning. Especially as Ironflower played it the entire way to school. This kazoo sounds like a dying cow and no tricks persuaded Ironflower to stop playing it.
When we got to school, I reminded Ironflower to leave her toys in the car. When Lovebug and I came back out, I made him climb in on her side and when he kicked the kazoo out in his climb, I let him. And I didn't even pick it up.
I am so going to hell. . . .where undoubtedly that kazoo will provide background music as I'm forced to read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover for all eternity.
