Rock On, Sisters

A few weeks ago I was on the couch watching the Twins play the Red Sox in one of their first televised spring training games when there was a knock on my front door. I assumed, since baseball was on, that My Ho had dropped by unannounced to watch the game with me, because that is the sort of thing he sometimes does, usually bearing ice cream or buffalo wings (as I have mentioned previously, he is the best boyfriend ever). But that night when I opened the door, to my bitter disappointment, it was not My Ho at all. Two women with clipboards were on my doorstep.

Crap, I thought, they're selling something. And now I’ve gone and answered the door and rendered useless my usual passive/aggressive ignore-the-knocking-until-they-go-away approach. I had left myself with no choice but to resort to Plan B: Thinly Disguised Rudeness.

I mustered up my “are you REALLY going to try and sell me something when baseball is on?” face, and opened my mouth to implement Plan B. But before I could make a sound, the clipboard woman with crayon red-dyed hair said, “Hi, we’re here from Pro Choice Minnesota.”

(Cue the scratching record needle sound clip.)

“Oh my God,” I said. “Where do I sign?”

They tried to give me the pitch anyway, about South Dakota and Mississippi and Missouri, about how women's health and rights are being jeapordized all over the country, and I said, “I know! It’s terrifying! GIVE ME THE CLIPBOARD!”

As I added my name and address to the list of signatures they’d already collected, they told me they were going door to door trying to raise support and funds. On behalf of my daughters, my sisters, my niece and myself, I thanked them sincerely.
And then I went and got my checkbook.

There aren’t many good reasons to interrupt me when baseball is on (my children will testify to that). But that was a good one.