7:45 pm. I'm sitting in the kitchen, babysitting some garlic bread in the oven for DH and reading my Entertainment Weekly, when the door buzzer sounds. Since we live on the 2nd floor of our building, which has no technical wizardry like security cameras or intercoms, I'm forced to run downstairs to see who is at the door.

It's not like my folks to just drop by, so I figured it was either (a) a delivery person who hit the wrong buzzer by accident, or (b) possibly a late FedEx-type shipment requiring a signature.

Nope. A shaggy-haired guy with a clipboard ruffled his papers at the door. I stood on the stairs and greeted him through the glass without coming to the door.

"May I help you?"

"Yeah. I'm with a national letter-writing campaign for Bush. It's about his ecological policies."

This being Evanston, it's a sure bet he means the campaign is protesting Bush's ecological policies (such as "burn all the darned trees down and drill for more oil"). I'm completely sympathetic, but totally exhausted and fully aware that only one of my three kids is pajama-clad and actually in bed. (Danny: fully dressed and sacked out cold on the sofa since 4 pm; Benjamin: being changed by DH in our room.) I don't have an ounce of energy to extend to this guy, and I sure as hell don't have any money for the cause.

"I'm sorry," I say. "This isn't a good time. I've got a newborn baby up here...."

"Well, that's kind of why we're doing this," he slams as he turns away, but not fast enough to prevent me hearing ".... Bitch."

My mature response? "BITE me!"


P.S. Can anyone explain what's up with the zombies in the BuyOwner commercials? They all paid over four thousand dollars to sell their homes, and then sit in their depressed living rooms, shouting "Thanks, BuyOwner" with inadequate breath, as though guns were being held to their temples. It's totallly creepy, if you ask me.

P.P.S. Strep Invasion, Day Five: The bastard fever and its accompanying burning chill has been gone since earlier on Sunday. My glands still pratically stick out of my neck like errant grapes. The throat pain is, actually, improved to the point where I can drink without crying, but my appetite remains poor, and when I sneeze or yawn, it feels like my phantom tonsils are being raked with rusty knives. I'm watching the kids like a hawk, constantly wondering if their crankiness is masking symptoms. So far, I'm seeing only bits of illness from them.... Jake has some congestion and Danny is sleepy, but no fevers have popped up at this point. Everyone keep healthy thoughts zinging our way, since DH's mom arrives on Friday, and Jake's birthday party is on Saturday....