This would be intrusive at any time of day, but at half past eight, it’s downright rude:
I decided that perhaps cleaning my toilet was more important than TV, so I was arm deep in the throne when it happened. The doorbell rang twice, not the ding dong of a normal person ringing my doorbell, more like ding a donga ding a donga. In a panic, I tried to rip my rubber gloves off but they were just stuck. The doorbell rang again. I proceeded to attempt to rush out of the bathroom but realized I had locked the door so the kids couldn’t come in while I was cleaning the toilet, and my gloves, that had decided they were all of a sudden my second skin, were too damn slippery to open the freaking door. Someone knocked loudly. I could hear it through the bathroom and my children’s bedrooms are right across from it. I was panicking. PLEASE DON’T WAKE UP MY KIDS, I screamed internally. The dog was pacing around, she hadn’t barked yet, but it was only a matter of time before she put on her “protection pants” and started warning me that there was someone that didn’t get the message the first time when I didn’t answer, incessantly trying to get my attention at the front door.
And for what? Of course, they were selling something.
My own rule is something like “If you come calling at 8:30, you better be delivering pizza.” Admittedly, this hasn’t happened a great deal in my neighborhood, and probably won’t be happening much: we are rather tightly networked around here. And I admit to occasional disproportionate responses, due to my somewhat-mercurial moods, though I haven’t done anything lately quite as drastic as, say, flashing the Jehovah’s Witnesses. (And hey, that was way back in 1977.)