I am really angry tonight. Or maybe I’m just deeply grieving. Maybe it is a mixture of both if the pseudo-science of psychology is to be believed. What I do know is that the country I woke up to this morning, is not the same country I will lie down to sleep in tonight.

The day wasn’t easy, to begin with. It was the usual Busy-Mom routine of meals, dishes, schoolwork, feeding pets, more schoolwork, and then unloading hundreds of items that were unexpectedly delivered – courtesy of a 53-foot semi – for my business.

Then lunch, more schoolwork, more dishes with laundry and pets thrown into the mix, hopefully in their respective places, and finally, the blessed event of evening and relaxing with my children.

Long story short, to relax from our unusually busy day, we stopped by Redbox, picked up several movies, then swung by our local authentic pizzeria, picking up a “pie”. Another four bucks for a half-dozen Polar Springs natural-flavored carbonated waters (who misses soda) and we zipped home, locked the doors, dished out the food, hit “Play”, cuddled, munched, and began our night…

Ding dong. The front doorbell began to ring. And ring. And ring. And ring. Let me be very clear: I WAS NOT EXPECTING ANYONE.

And WHEN THE HUSBAND IS OUT OF TOWN, I do NOT answer the door UNLESS I am expecting someone.

I make no apologies. I don’t have a free and easy lifestyle of “come on over and drop in anytime”. I admire people who do. But that’s not me. Either I’m cooking, writing, teaching, or driving around picking up locally-grown food, and if I have to include Casual Drop-Ins, in my schedule, we’d be eating at McDonald’s, and that just isn’t something I have a desire to do.

Plus, hey, this is the East Coast. People are just more aggressive, and whether they’re calling on me to sell magazine, or their own brand of religion, they are persistent.

Back to the doorbell. Ding dong. Ding dong. Ding dong. Are you tired of hearing it? I was. How obnoxious is that?

Do you have friends who would do that?

Would you keep friends who would do that?

Do you raise your children to do that?

If you do, you need to find new friends, need to learn better parenting techniques, or perhaps, you’re one of those wacky commie-thinking liberals who past the age of 21, still doesn’t grasp freedom or independence. “Answer the door because I demand it”, doesn’t work in our house.

So we ate. Chew. Knock. Chew. Ding dong. Chew. Knock. Chew. Ding dong.

Oh, at this point you’re thinking, “What if it was a neighbor wanting help?”, worry no longer. We’d already looked out the window, didn’t recognize the car, and had no desire to answer the door. Take your magazines and go away, was my thinking.

Between each of Ding dongs, my 70-lb poodle was incensed, Doing His Job, letting it be known that He Did Not Like Someone Pounding on His Door. Bark. Bark. Bark. We’re talking big, protective-testosterone, ready-to-guard barking. He meant business.

Finally. Ten minutes (my daughter says closer to 15-minutes later) whoever the ill-mannered person was ding-donging my doorbell, left.

My only regret is I didn’t call the police on them for disturbing my peace.

Ten minutes later, guess what? Ding dong. This time, I was mad. Then my youngest yelled, “Mom! It’s a police car!” Now what????

Bright, shining flashlight in my face. Blinded, I managed to make out the face of some cop who didn’t look old enough to shave. “Mam”, he started out, “we received a report that someone here was moaning and calling for help.”

You know, I hate those moments in life where I probably look as dumb as what my facial expression indicates I am. I repeated, “Calling for help?”

“Yes”, he said, at least having the decency to lower his flash light out of my eyes. “We received a report that a census worker was here, and that he heard moaning coming from inside your home. He heard someone yelling for help, so he came down to the station, asking for our help. Is anyone hurt here?”

I looked at my two children who were staring at him with the same expression I had on my face. I offered them up to him with, “Why don’t you ask them?” The split second I did that, I was filled with self-hatred.

It felt as if I was guilty of Something, and was begging them to come to my defense.

Flashing his light into their faces, he inquisitioned, “Are you guys okay?” I felt my blood pressure rise a few notches, but waited for their response.

God Bless ‘em. They began laughing, and my youngest, who battles Autism, asked in his very straighforward manner, “Yeah, we’re okay, but you have got to be kidding.”

Taken aback, the officer turned back to me and aggressively asked, “Why didn’t you open your door for the census worker?”

“Because I didn’t KNOW it was the census worker? But even then, is there a law I’m not aware of that COMMANDS me to open my door to anyone?”

He ignored me, responding, “If you didn’t want to talk to him, all you had to do was open your door, tell him you didn’t want to talk to him, and that would have ended it.”

Now I was mad. “When my husband is out of town, I don’t answer my door for anyone. And honestly? Unless my son had told me he’d seen a police car, I wouldn’t have even opened my door for you. And you have got a lot of guts telling me how or when I should choose to answer my door.”

“I don’t see the problem”, he persisted. “All you had to do was answer your door and say ‘I’m not interested’”.

“I’m totally done with you, but I would like to add, ‘Shame on you’.”

“Shame on me?”, he said, leaning forward into my face, looking like this could go south real quick.

“Yes, shame on you. SHAME on you for insisting I HAVE to answer my door. While it is still America, get the hell off my property.”

Yeah. I kind of repented later, but you know what? I didn’t feel a real strong leading of the Holy Spirit that I had anything to repent of.

Long story short, when I finished burning up the lines, calling the Census Bureau and our local police station, one census worker was out of a job, and one very young, very immature, very unprofessional police officer has been informed by his supervisors that his behavior was beyond inappropriate. In fact, his supervisor told me that I did exactly what he instructs his family to do: “When I’m not home? Don’t answer that door.” And he even gave me a few whispered “Amens”, when I suggested the officer who came to my house should be sent to his room without dinner, as well as receiving a massive time-out, and that I didn’t think the supervisor had ‘raised him right’” and that the “bratty little punk needed some remedial training”. He agreed with me.

For me, the creepiest thing of all, wasn’t even the out-of-control census worker who was angry because I refused to answer the door. I mean, as if he could hear someone moaning over the barking of a 70-lb dog??? C’mon. Nut job.

What creeped me out was the cop. If I, a middle-aged housewife with two children hiding behind me, could make him rise to the occasion, acting in an aggressive, defensive position, this does indeed not bode well for the future of our country. “Husband out of town” should have signaled him immediately to respond in a different behavior. Obvious, he wasn’t married, and had no children if he thought women roll-over when they’re in a protective stance. Stand-down is not in my vocab when I’m on duty.

I want my hard-earned tax dollars to go toward employing police officers who are well-trained, can keep their cool, and respond in a professional manner, not allowing their anger to be fueled by protective, claws-out mother who is hard-wired to protect.

His supervisor told me, “We are progressive……..”.

I said, “Stop right there”, telling him exactly what I thought of the progressive drivel. This is how Hitler made the inroads he did, making people mindlessly nod and agree.

Hey. I didn’t get burned at the stake or jailed, and in fact, got two characters either taken out of our system, or at least put on notice.

Maybe I still do live in America.

And the next time someone persistently rings my doorbell? I’m calling the cops.

Speak out.