Puppies for Hire

Sometimes you just have to laugh.  Like, when you hear a loud, repetitive knock on your front door and you instinctually know it's not someone you want to see.  Like, oh, a process server.  He and I are getting to know each other well.  We were first introduced a few days before my Dad's funeral, after my sister answered the door to his loud, repetitive knock and began giving him FAR too much information about my relationship to my Dad.  Sissy loves being helpful.  Unfortunately, I was on the phone at the time with the San Francisco Chronicle taking care of Dad's obituary and wasn't exactly in the friendliest of moods ($400+ for an obit?!  are you SERIOUS?!  bastards.) and sort of "shot the messenger" with a barrage of "He doesn't live here.  He's never lived here.  He passed away 5 days ago- you rude, opportunistic money-monger.. you can take your papers and...." well, I didn't finish the statement, because he looked like he was going to cry, and I think I looked like a gorgon and was scaring him.  He apologized profusely for the confusion, and stepped away to make a phone call.  I waited patiently.  Well, actually, I returned to my opportunistic money-monger Chronicle call, and wrapped that up (multi-tasking at its finest) and THEN waited patiently for him to tell me unfortunately he'd more than likely be returning to serve the papers to me.  I think I slammed the door in his face.  I know I said more than a few choice words.  I cried.  I called Husby.  I called Dad's lawyer.  Dad's lawyer gently advised me to try to be nicer when the process server returned, and to mail him the papers.  I snuffled in compliance.

(Jump forward to 30 minutes ago)

**KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK**  (yes, that many- I am not one to exaggerate.  Much.)

"Oh, hello.  Good morning.  Was there something you'd like to give me?"  I think he thinks I'm bipolar.  I'm okay with that.

"Umm, well, this card was left on your porch," as he stoops and hands me what is sure to be another sympathy card "and yes, I need to give you these."  He says this without raising his hand to actually give me the papers.

"Okay. Well, let's have them, then.  I figured you didn't drive all this way to hand me my mail."

"I just, well, miss, I just feel so bad for you.  How are you doing?  Are you hanging in there?  Have all the arrangements been made?  Was your father ill?  Did it come as a surprise?"

"Sir.  Umm, thank you...?  I'm fine, really.  Everything is taken care of.  My father had cancer and we knew he would pass.  Thank you for your concern.  May I have the papers, please?"

"It's just, well, can I DO anything for you?"

"Wanna go to court for me?  Not really looking forward to it too much..."

"Oh,"   "Well, miss... that's an awful cute puppy you have, do you think I could rent her?  I bet people would be nicer to me if I brought her to the door."

See that?  He changed the subject.  Why?  Because NO ONE likes going to court.  Not even process servers, apparently.

"Yeah.  No.  She's not for hire.  Chloe, get in the damn house."    "Papers?  Please?"

"Oh- hear you go.  Please, take care."

So, I close the door, start sifting through the stapled packet and he knocks again, another seven times.  I wonder at this point, just how large he thinks my little cottage is...?  And also if at this point he's going to ask me out to coffee.  He looks like a coffee drinker.  I'm more of a tea fan.  It would never work.  That and he's old enough to be my father and I doubt Husby would agree to me going on dates with process servers.  But you never know.  Regardless, he's just not my type.  I can just tell he drinks coffee.

"Yes??"

"I forgot to ask your name.... sorry."

"How exactly do you serve papers to someone when you don't know their name..?  You know what?  Nevermind.  Don't answer that.  My name is Danielle Chapatte."

"Chapatte?  That name sounds so familiar."

"Yea, yea, yea, they're all over the damn place.  Big family.  Everyone knows someone.  K.  Thanks!  Bye."

So, I closed the door.  Again.  A little more abruptly this time, though not exactly a slam- just in case he was considering the coffee offer.  And I laughed.  And decided to blog about it.  What a lovely morning this is turning out to be.

Who decides one day that they will, for a living, serve people papers that will devastate their lives, or at the least, seriously foul up their day?  Coffee drinkers.  Obviously.  Even if they are nice ones, there has to be something just not right to choose that as a career path.  I bet he prefers skittles over M&Ms as well.  But that's another blog for another day.