Picture the scene: you are lounging around in your pajamas on a Saturday morning, debating which home-improvement project you will attempt to tackle today-- "Painting The Railing" is near the top of the list, but "Rearranging Furniture In Basement" is also a contender.
You have decided to get a jump on the day and knock out a couple of loads of laundry, which you are currently folding in the living room. Additionally, your children have been pestering you to make waffles, which you just did, so all the detritus from that venture are scattered about the kitchen. They have simultaneously opened up the recent birthday Play-Doh (with all its accoutrements) and a new set of miniature Lego's. All of the pieces are hopelessly strewn about.
It goes without saying that your hair is not washed (it is in a sloppy ponytail-bun hybrid, with no princess barrette in sight) and you have no make-up on. The TV is on, and it is louder than you might like. Ahh, the peace and tranquility of this lovely domestic moment.
The door-bell rings, shattering your private and messy bliss.
You mildly freak out (just "mildly" because you are pretty sure it is some Jehovah's Witness and you can usually get away with the twin adult strategies of Being Really Quiet and Just Not Answering The Door). No. The bell rings again, followed by a persistent knocking.
You think, "Wow-- those religious zealots are tenacious! Guess that's why they're called 'zealots'!" Then, your husband (without thinking to consult you first) innocently enough goes to the door and answers. There, in all her glory, is the Relative-You-Barely-Know.
"Hi!" says perky Relative-You-Barely-Know, with her pretty hair and recently-ironed sundress, "I was just in the neighborhood" (she lives about 30 minutes away, so it is not a complete lie) "and so I thought I would just drop by, hope that is okay!"
"Ummm," you think "no it is not really okay at all. Have you never heard of a PHONE for goshsakes, RYBK?"
Instead, your husband-- who you now realize does not possess the powers of mental telepathy-- says, "Come on in!"
You wonder what your husband is thinking. You wonder what RYBK is thinking. What YOU are thinking is, "Can we just go back to the way things were 10 minutes ago? Why don't you just leave right now, RYBK?"
You slip out of the room and throw on an outfit (well, "outfit" in the broadest sense of the definition). It does not even qualify as a standard momiform. Sweatshorts, t-shirt--possibly with cranberry juice spilled on it-- that you wore yesterday because it was laying on the chair and was the closest thing you could grab. All the damn baseball hats are in the front closet, so that is not going to happen.
You glance in the mirror and see a dried clump of mascara just below your eye. Mascara from yesterday.
Then, thru the thin walls, you hear RYBK say to your husband, "Hey, I heard you renovated! Can I get a tour?" Oh, God, nooooooo, no no no no no no, that is NOT what she said. No no no, please no. Then you hear footsteps up to the kids' toy area, not typically described as the "neatest" room in the house.
Your mind is going in a million directions. How can you get RYBK out of here? You need a plan! What is the plan?! You are grasping at straws. It is too late and you know it. RYBK and your husband are now coming down the stairs and your husband is saying (you wish you could just grab his tongue and YANK it out of his head),
"Hey, RYBK, we just finished breakfast but maybe you might like to sit down for a while and stay for some coffee?"
What could have possibly made you marry this man? What exactly? You are now beginning to question every decision that you have ever made that has led you to this precise moment. Your husband obviously does not know you very well at all.
RYBK wants to see the basement. And the garage. And the yard. And "Before/ After" photos. You are starting to hate RYBK more and more.
"THIS is why we never invite you over, RYBK!" you want to say, but don't. Then, RYBK starts to GET OUT HER CAMERA. At this point, you have had enough.
The rage is about to boil over and you are going to say something, you don't know what yet, but chances are, it won't be pretty. Then, as if sent by God, a loud shrieking-- wailing really-- ensues.
"He hit me!" says your one child, "No, he started it!" says the other. The crying escalates and the whirlwind of chaos stops RYBK in her tracks.
"Oh, I have caught you at a bad time," she coos to your husband, "I should get going." She gives your husband a quick pat on his shoulder and then scoots out to her car. You have never wanted to hug your children and thank them so much in your life!
"Cry louder!" you think. And, as if by magic, they do.
("Mentally Off Vortex")