Wretched Census People!

This is a departure from my usual blog entries, but I thought a little humor was in order this week.  A little background:  My family has spent the last four years traveling in an RV while we homeschooled our children.  (My husband was a part-time Reserve Air Force pilot.)  Just recently, we decided to settle down for awhile, and we have started looking for a house in a charming small town in rural North Carolina.  We are blessed to have our comfortable, roomy RV to live in as we take our time finding the right place to live.  We're staying in a very nice wooded campground, and our site overlooks a pond where Canadian geese stop during migration, and deer often run through the surrounding hills.  Even so, there are some people who don't quite "get" why we would do this, thus the following (true) story, which does have a spiritual theme (wait for it...):

I woke up this morning feeling exhausted and beset by a bad case of those middle-age hormones. After getting everyone off to school, I sat down to tackle the first item on the list: calling the military health care "customer service" for the 10th time, regarding their inept handling of our transfer to a new region. After that stimulating call, I was ready to get some exercise and sun on my face, so I opened the door to get a feel for the weather and how I should dress for my much-anticipated bike ride.


To my surprise, there were two badly dressed men approaching the RV, wearing some sort of badges and carrying clipboards. They shouted, "We're from the census department. We need to ask you a few questions." The poor things really had no idea who they were about to deal with.

I tried to remain calm. "Sorry. I'm just about to run out."

Undaunted, one of them called out, "How long have you been living here?"

I snapped, "Don't you people mail out forms?"

They looked surprised. "Oh, you have a PO Box?"

(No. I get my mail from the Pony Express.) "Yes, of course."

"Have you received your questionnaire yet?"

"No, but I'm sure it will arrive soon. Good day."

They still refuse to leave. "We have to go through all the campgrounds and find the transient people who are living there."

Now they have gone too far. Don't they realize that this is a custom RV with real cherry cabinets and a dishwasher? I am no TRANSIENT, even if I look the part at this moment, with no make-up, hair in a ponytail, wearing a sweatsuit (my best Nike one, however).

I narrow my eyes and beam out death rays, "If you want to ask me any questions, you can make an appointment at a time that is convenient for me."

They STILL don't give up. One shouts, "Do you live here with your husband?"

(No. I raise snakes and train them to strike at wretched census people.) "I will not answer your questions until you make an appointment. I have to go."

I close the door as they shout, "Someone will just come back tomorrow."

I take a deep breath. Since it's Lent, I pray for them. They'll probably need it.