I have a phone because I want it to be available when I want to use it, not for the convenience of others. Secondly, we need it because of my husband’s job. He’s second-in-charge of a prison, and there are times when they need to inform him of issues which arise or have questions which only he can answer. They leave a message, and we call back. Simple.
No need to board up my front door. It has a lock.
Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love once put a sign on their hotel room door: “No More Famous People, Please. We’re Fucking!”
No, it’s not easier, unless you want to get a repuation for being nasty. I once felt the same as you, and thought people would understand if I politely explained we didn’t want company.
Instead, people wheedle and whine, “I won’t stay long, I promise. . . . I don’t care that the house is a mess! . . . . You’re sick? I’ll just stand by the couch and tallk to you. . . . You’re in your PJs? I’ll wait for you to get dressed! . . . You’re baking something? I’ll help!”
And Christ help me if it’s the neighbor lady. I could tell her my dog was on fire, and she’d still stand there, yapping, increasing the speed of her words until she sounds like a auctioneer, clutching the screen door desperately.
There really is no polite but firm way to tell people to leave. You can try several gentle tactics, but you ultimately end up being short and snappy because nothing else works. Then people tell everyone what a bitch you are.
Easier just to avoid the entire situation.
The secret password is a polite call the day before, “Hey, Lissa, we’d like to come over tomorrow evening.” Sure! I say, we’d love to have you.
The “secret ring” on the phone is a concise message, “Lissa, I need to speak to you about X, Y and Z.”
No, it really doesn’t. I’m a very happy person, who has a great home life. I just want to be left in peace by those who wish to intrude upon it. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.
No, not at all. It makes me irritated, but less so than I would be having to entertain with no notice.
