Anyways, owning a home has not made me any less of a scaredy cat. One day the power went out in our cul-du-sac, and Peter wasn't home from work yet. I called him to tell him the power went out, and he told me that I had to go in the DARK SCARY BASEMENT to check to see if it was flooded. I ran down, put my foot down and it was dry, and then I ran back up the stairs and declared that I would NOT be doing that again.
And once it's in my head that I'm scared about something, I am a wreck, jumping at the littlest things and gasping when I hear any noise.
The other day when I got home from work, as I was pulling into the garage, I noticed something was off. A big something.
The door from the garage into our entryway/kitchen was wide open.
Too many episodes of Law & Order flashed through my mind as I considered backing out of the garage, closing the door, and waiting until Pete got home from work so he could be manly and check everything out. But then I thought that the murderer in the house would have heard the garage door open, and was probably hiding somewhere so that he could get me when I came in.
So I sat in my car considering what I should do, and TRYING to think logically about the situation. The man-door to the garage was still locked. Nothing in our garage was out of place.
As I got out of my car, I left the garage door open in case I had to make a fast get away. And then I glanced around the garage looking for something to carry with me as I went into the house (note: buy a baseball bat). Tennis racket? No. Plastic shovel with metal edge? Maybe... New garden shears that aren't out of the cardboard? Yes. So I folded the edge of the cardboard down so that I could stab someone if needed. Kind of like this...
I had also taken out my phone and dialed 9-1-1 into the keypad with my thumb hovering over the "call" button just in case I had to stab anyone. I was ready to enter.
I walked through the house turning on all the lights with the garden shears leading the way. I was suddenly very aware at how loudly I breathe.
After I checked all of the closets, behind the shower curtains, and all corners of our suddenly gigantic house, I walked over to the basement door and chain-locked it. That thing has never come in so handy.
I texted Pete that he left the door to the house wide open and that I thought someone broke in, and his response was "whoopsie." Uhhhh, yeah. Whoopsie is right.
When he got home I made him check the basement. No one was hiding down there.
Then he saw the hedge trimmers on the kitchen counter, and asked what they were doing there. I told him that I needed them to protect myself.
He laughed.
I asked for a home security system.
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