To the friendly Jehovah's Witness who had to see me in my nightgown-

I appreciate that you want to save my soul. I truly do.

But, I'm pretty sure that obsessively ringing my doorbell on a Saturday morning when I'm trying desperately to clean up before my husband's family comes over is not the best time to do it. Especially when I'm still dressed in the one nightgown I own and not my usual yoga pants and T-shirt that I can often pass off as lazy day clothes and not pajamas.

Because when you show up on a Saturday ringing the doorbell of a pregnant woman who is flustered and irritated that her husband is off having a nice relaxing morning coffee and not helping clean up, here is what inevitably happens:

She will answer the door against her better judgment because seeing a strange man in a suit on a Saturday morning might make her think that it is something very important. She may even be so paranoid about owning chickens (and a rooster) and having been quoted in the paper recently on such matters, that she will think you are some kind of county code enforcer come to snatch her children's' chickens from them. Even though she knows that county code enforcers do NOT wear black suits.

Except maybe on days when they go out to witness to neighborhoods on behalf of their churches.

And so she'll hide in the dining room and insist her 4-year-old run and get her a pair of jeans to throw on with her nightgown so she can answer the door in something other than the Pollyanna nightgown she finds herself in. But, she'll forget that the differences in maternity jeans and men's jeans might be indecipherable to a 4-year-old. So, she'll end up wearing her husband's jeans with her nightgown when she answers the door for you.

And she'll be grouchy. Sweet merciful Lord, will she be grouchy.

But, most important, in her haste to put on the jeans over her nightgown she will forget something very important. Something she will not remember until after you leave. She will forget one of the most important steps in dressing one's self in pants.

She will forget to zip up her husband's pants.

So, while you are trying to witness to her and save a place in the sweet hereafter for her grouchy, messy self she will be flashing you a very undignified view of her undergarments that will be accentuated by the obvious Pollyanna nightgown poking through the aforementioned unzipped zipper.

And she will close the door after meeting you, realize the state of dress she was in, and go on to call her husband and blame him for all of this.

Because, after all, he was the one who was chilling at Starbuck's while she had no choice but to sleep in too late, fail to get dressed properly, and answer the door to a complete stranger. So, it has to be his fault, right? I thought so.