Don’t Panic

Someone tried to break into our house while we were in our bedroom. We heard noises the other night and didn’t think anything of it, as I was running the dryer and it’s LOUD.

But, um, last night we noticed that the whole doorjamb was banged up, and it looks like someone tried to stick a long wire or jimmy in there to trip the deadbolt, walk in and help themselves to our stuff. And, you know, US, comfortably snuggly in our bed. We called the cops to report it, and this dude straight out of Deliverance showed up, heavy Southern accent, pockmarked face and potbelly in tow. I wondered for the eleventy millionth time why I moved to this terrifying state as I waited for words, “You sure do got a purty mouth!” followed by gunpoint-coerced sex with both of us . Instead I got:

“Durn there looks like someone done tryin’ to break in’ yo’ hay-ouse. You got anythin’ o’ wort in they-ah? In plain saaaht that’s a temptay-shun to them unsavory folk?”

Um, what? Hay-ouse? DO YOU MEAN HOUSE? WORT? He then proceeded to go on and on about his new house in Montana and the security he’s putting in there and blah blah blah I don’t care about Montana because I LIVE FAR AWAY FROM THERE.

I freak out near cops. I mean, FREAK OUT like I’m high or something. I haven’t broken the law since 1999, when I was at a party where there was pot, yet strangely, when I am in the presence of police, I get as paranoid as if I’ve got a 15-lb bag of heroin underneath the sink. I become overly solicitous and make pointed comments about my clean-living, non-rule-breaking annoying Capricorn self. I *wave* to police passing me in the street, thinking, “If I wave and act like I see them, they won’t stop me!” And if they pull me over, I go on and on about how long it’s been since I’ve had a drink and how I’m afraid to take the tags off of mattresses, much less speed. It’s horrible.

Of course, when Officer Roscoe Pekoe Train showed up and started hypothesizing as to why someone would do this, I offered,

“OMIGOD. Do you think they were looking for drugs? Because we *so* do not have drugs in this house! I mean, I don’t even like to DRINK that much, much less do drugs! We JUST SAY NO in this house, you know what I mean?”

A lie. I mean, yes, we just say no to drugs, not that anyone has asked in about a decade. And the giant jug o’ wine on the kitchen counter in plain view made the fact that I don’t drink a bit of an obvious falsehood, given that it was open and a glass was poured and my lips were red. And last time I checked, I was 30 and allowed to drink anywhere in the world. And it didn’t stop there.

“Do people steal drugs? Or just money for drugs? Because we DO NOT HAVE DRUGS! NO DRUGS HERE! We’re too old for drugs! JUST SAY NO!”

*nervous laugh*

Finally, Adam turned to me and frantically gestured for me to leave the room, as I was apparently freaking everyone out, including Roscoe, and if I kept it up, I’m pretty sure we’d have had a SWAT team tearing the house apart looking for mythical drugs. Adam still can’t get over my odd behavior, and I’m pretty sure he’s thinking that I’m a closet cocaine addict.

So now we have two motion sensors, three alarms, a new lock on the door and motion-detecting floodlights out front. If anyone so much as FARTS in the general direction of our house, we will be awake, hammers in hand. I so dare you, druggies. NO DRUGS HERE.

I am not freaked out about this, surprisingly. Our house in college was burglarized so often we just accepted it as a fact of life. After a party at our house, we left the keg on the porch, tapped, and came home to three homeless guys kicking back with a beer. I woke up in the middle of the night one night to a man trying to OPEN THE WINDOW OVER MY HEAD while I slept. He was a drunk looking for a place to pass out. When I came out screaming, he ran. Big deal. If they wanted to stab me, they’d break the glass and stab me. Most people want money, or things to steal.

You know, for drugs. Not that we have any.

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Separately, the dog.

She has a winky weird eye that the breeder is worried about, and as a result he may want to keep her. {{sob}}Something with tear production and microsurgery and I don’t know, so don’t ask for deets, I haven’t a clue. *My* dog. My little Samalah. Maybe *his* little Samalah. We visited her on Saturday, you know, just in case, and per my request, are calling her Sam(my). So that’s her name whether she’s mine or not, and it KILLS ME. *stabs self in eye*

But today he called and said he thinks she may be turning a corner and she has an appointment with an eye specialist tomorrow at 10:15 a.m., so let’s hope he’s right. I fell for that little tuxedoed thing and I want her home. After his first phone call, I wrote her off, and now my hopes are up again. I hope she can shake it, for I want that little bundle, like yesterday.

*Coldplay

21 comments January 31st, 2006