So I’m in the kitchen washing dishes when I think I hear a knock at the door. I stop what I’m doing and listen for a second, and on hearing nothing, go back to swishing the dishes in the rinse water.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
I hear it loud and clear this time.
I holler out for The Kid to answer the door.
As usual, I get no response because he is wearing circa 1972 ginormous headphones for his game playing.
“Danggit!” I mutter, grabbing a dish towel.
Taking the twenty steps from the sink to the front door (I know, cause I counted), I open it to find three MIB standing there.
MIB. Men In Black.
“Who died?” is the first thing to come out of my mouth.
“Are you Ellen Lambert?” asks the one on the left.
“Who wants to know?”
“Just answer the question please, ma’am. Are you Ellen Lambert?”
I roll my eyes and start to shut the door.
“That’s her., says the one on the right. “It’s the classic eye roll. Dead giveaway.”
Danggit again!
The one in the middle speaks.
“May we come in?”
“No, you may not. What do you want?” I ask, taking the dish towel I’d flung over my shoulder and finishing the drying off of my hands.
“Just a quick word, Mrs. Lambert. Just a quick word,” he responds.
I step back and sweep my arm out, letting them come in past me.
I step out onto the front stoop and look around.
“Is there a problem, Mrs. Lambert?” the one on the left asks.
“Nah. Just lately when someone knocks at the door, it’s usually the Big O or Jesus. Just wanted to check ’cause I’m outta cheese and crackers,” I say, stepping back inside.
“Danggit!” I hear the one on the right mutter.
We get seated in my small little living room and The Kid makes an appearance in the hall doorway.
He gets a funny look on his face like “uh oh, they’re tracking my internet activity!” and scrambles back down to his room.
“Well, come on ... out with it,” I instruct the one in the middle.
He leans forward and lowers his sunglasses.
“Mrs. Lambert, would you be interested in becoming the vice president of the United States?”
“Say what?”
“Veep. Are you interested?”
“You mean, Veep like Julia Louis-Dreyfus on HBO?”
“Yes ma’am,” says the one on the right, “like the program.”
I make a “Hmm!” face and he continues, “Mind you, it’s not like you’ll be acting on a television show. You will actually be vice president of the United States.”
“VP, huh? Well. That’s interesting. But, uh ... why me?”
“Rubio can’t do it.”
They all look at each other and shake their heads.
“He’s too young,” says the one on the left.
“Never cussed anyone out,” says the one in the middle.
“He’s cute, but he’s no Ricky Ricardo,” says the one on the right.
“Well, it sounds like fun and all that, but, you know, don’t think I’m right for it. No college, no foreign language skills ... how’d you end up with my name?”
“Basically, ma’am, we were phishing on the internet and saw that you complain about the current administration quite often. We thought you could probably hold your own against folks like Bill Maher and Chris Matthews.”
I nod my head.
“Couple of turdburgers. They don’t scare me. Still though, what’s in it for me?” I ask.
They look at each other and shrug their shoulders.
“Maid service.”
“Cook.”
“Chauffeur.”
Wow. Sounds kinda hard to beat, doesn’t it?
“So what makes you think Obama won’t win again?” I ask.
They all laugh.
“Warren Buffet! He’s switched camps!” says the one in the middle.
Ohhhh! That’s right! He said he’s not a card-carrying Democrat ... anymore.
“I dunno,” I say, shaking my head, “just not ready for a move to D.C. Surely there is someone way more qualified than me.  Just about anyone else in the country is way more qualified than me.”
“Well, you do have a ‘connection’ to Jesus, and you know ... Romney? Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints? That whole ‘Jesus’ thing….”
“I see. What does Romney have to say about it all?”
“Well, ma’am, he really doesn’t have a say so ... it’s all pretty much pre-arranged ... so....”
I get up from my chair and open the front door.
“Jeez, guys, I think I’ll have to pass. I’ve still got a kid to raise. Don’t want him to be too sullied by Washington.”
“That’s fine, ma’am. Let us know for sure by six o’clock tomorrow evening. That’s the deadline.”
“Anyone else in contention?” I ask the one in the middle.
“Hulk Hogan and Dog the Bounty Hunter. In case we decide to go the ‘intimidation’ factor and opt out of the ‘brash and sassy’ factor.”
“Well, compared to Romney, they are intimidating, but you’ll have to do better than that. Dog’s wife, Beth. Now that’s an intimidating woman. Put her on your list,” I suggest.
They look at each other, shrug, and nod. The one on the left takes out a little notebook and scribbles her name in.
“Adios, boys. Good luck. If you happen to run into POTUS or HayZuss, tell them I’m out of crackers and cheese!”
“Will do, ma’am.”
It really is time to put up a security gate.