When Greg got a contract in California in 2004, the kids and I moved out there with him for seven months. We rented a two bedroom apartment so that our family could be together. (Yes, we were reallllly together.) There were only six of us back then.

One day I heard a knock on the door. This was unusual because the FedEx guy had already been by earlier, and we didn’t know anyone out there yet. I peered out the peephole but couldn’t make out the person. Not that I’d know who he was anyway.

When I opened the door, he thrust out his hand to greet me with a little too much enthusiasm. He was so close—about two inches from the door jam. His arm was in already. I slammed the door on his limb, dead bolted it, grabbed the phone (which still had a dial tone), and sunk to the floor.

Now, he could’ve just been a dad whose kids wanted to meet mine. He could’ve been telling me that the exercise room was open. He could’ve been returning my stolen socks from the laundry room. But since I’m an amiable pessimist, I chose to believe that he just wanted to murder me and my children. He probably drove a white cargo van.

The reason I’m bringing this up is because it happened again yesterday. Someone rang our doorbell. I checked through the door glass and didn’t recognize the woman. Our vicious guard dog, Knoxer the Boxer, growled and tried to pounce. My heart skipped a beat. She stood very, very close to the door. I sized her up, figured I could take her, and opened the door anyway.

She handed me two dozen roses.

But still. If you knock on someone’s door, take a few steps back. You might save yourself a limb or two. If you drive a suspicious vehicle, I’d suggest backing up a couple feet.