Tuesday, July 11, 2006

My Brush With Scientology

Andrew and I were watching CSI Miami, I'm relaxing on the couch, when the doorbell rings. Since we weren't expecting anyone, I got a little annoyed, paused CSI, wrangled the dogs behind the gate, and went to see who was trying to sell us what.

I'm going to segue briefly; within the first month of owning our home, a 20-something real estate agent showed up on my doorstep at noon asking if we were interested in selling our house. I thanked him for asking, and let him know that we had bought a month prior. He asked how much we paid. I told him that was a matter of public record and he was free to look it up if he so chose.

Other solicitations: Three different unsavory looking [male] magazine subscription sales guys. Niki made his scary face, which helped me get rid of them. Oh, and they came by around noon, and I happened to be home for lunch. But seriously, how many people are home around noon or one? We've also had the evil neighbor children came begging for donations for softball.

So, anyway, Andrew answers the door, and it's a woman. He steps outside to keep Niki from going nuts, walks back in the house and asks me if I'd like to take a book survey.

"A book survey? Sure!" I say, thinking that this is pretty cool.

Now, I would like to say that I assumed that she was a student conducting a poll for research. I step outside and I see a copy of "Dianetics" surreptitiously tucked under her clipboard.

Nooooooooooooo!!! screams a voice inside my head. However, because my mother raised me better than to run back in the house and slam the door in her face, I smile and try to end this little encounter quickly.

She begins by asking me what kinds of books I read. I answer that I'm an eclectic bibliophile. She asks if I ever get stressed. I tell her that I have a couple of outlets for stress management, thanks for asking. She asks if I ever read self-help books.

All of her questions are aimed to show her that I have low self-esteem. One after another. I start to fidget at look back at the door pointedly.

"I'm sorry," she half-apologizes, "Do you have somewhere you need to be?"

"I have dinner on the stove," I say, "I need to get back to it. Have a nice evening."

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