How To Make Me Love You
October 24, 2005
I opened the front door.
“Yes, can I help you?” I asked the man standing on my front porch, after first peeking out the window and determining he a) wasn’t carrying a stack of Bible pamphlets, or b) looked like some sort of crazed killer.
“Yes, I’d like to talk to your dad, please. Is he at home?” the man politely asked.
“Nooooooo, my Dad doesn’t live here.”
“Oh, your mother then.”
“I’m sorry, but this is my house. Is there something I can help you with?”
“I’m a bit confused. I’m looking for Robert Lastname.”
“Robert Lastname is my husband.”
“Wow, you don’t look old enough to be married.”
“I love you.” Okay I really didn’t say that, but I thought it. I would like to shackle him to my front porch so that every time I exit my house he’d be there to tell me how young I look. And I bet if I withheld food awhile I could get him to tell me I was pretty too. I wondered if I should let him know I had seven children , but then I decided why spoil the illusion.
And I do NOT think the man had vision problems as was suggested by my son, who not only does not want to see his next birthday but is currently being written out of my will.
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