Happy Friday Eve, awesome readers!
Unless if you live where my internal clock was deported from, you’re probably sleeping right now.
Clarification #1: It’s 2 a.m.
Clarification #2: This means absolutely nothing to the hamster.
Clarification #3: The hamster is an icehole.
Clarification #4: I live in freezing Montreal(ish) and I found out recently that my teen’s teacher reads this site and somehow using the word “icehole” instead of “asshole” makes me feel better about that. Also that sounded less panicky in my head, which is where my mind resides and as I’m about to explain to you, I really can’t trust my mind right now.
It all started with me lying here in the dark at this ungodly hour. The house is so quiet that it’s like the walls of my room are holding their breath. To me, this can only mean one thing:
THERE’S A SERIAL KILLER HIDING IN MY CLOSET.
Also, the fact that this is an “ungodly hour” makes me feel that at this very point in time I’m completely vulnerable because even God is sleeping.
But then I remember that I have dogs and all is well in the world.
Until my house phone rings and all I get from the other end is a *click* after my second, “hello?”
This becomes a BYOT party for the hamster (bring your own thoughts):
The serial killer isn’t in your closet, dummy. He’s sitting in his car across the street. That was HIM making sure that you’re home because your car is in the garage. He’s probably breaking into the basement RIGHT NOW.
And then I hear it: The loudest my-house-just-moved creak in the history of all house noises. This is when I begin to pray. “Dear God. Please don’t let it be messy. Please . . .”
It dawns on me:
This is an “ungodly” hour.
Translation: GOD IS SLEEPING.
But all is still okay. I’m “strategic” in my day job. What can I do to fix this?
Oh I know! I need to get to HIM before he gets to my kids. I need to be proactive.
I get up. Kick the dogs awake because GET UP, YOU’RE COMING WITH ME and the three of us sneak downstairs like Ninjas.
Clarification #5: I’m a Ninja IN MY HEAD. My dogs are just annoyed.
We arrive in the basement where I have one solitary window (suddenly I’m grateful for this) and the dogs and I have three objectives:
One, make sure said serial killer has not yet entered the house. – Check. Window is still intact.
Two, figure out if I own a hammer. – There’s a toolbox down here. Somewhere.
Three, wait. – Because to catch a serial killer, you must BECOME the serial killer. Or something.
As I sit, crouched in the corner with a dictionary because as it turns out I do not own a hammer, I work on domesticating my capacity to breath. My “strategy” relies on the element of surprise. I. Am. Rambo.
According to my knees, a decade passes by.
All of a sudden I realize that I can’t see the dogs because of the pitch dark. “It’s probably okay to turn on the flashlight app on my phone,” I tell myself because by now I’ve fired my mind and am 100% relying on my survival instincts.
The dogs are nowhere. I’m alone.
So very quietly I sneak upstairs and this is what I find:
That’s when I realize:
This is not an ungodly hour. It’s an unDOGLY hour. One word comes to mind:
I sit on the couch and another few decades go by. Still no sound of breaking glass to indicate that the serial killer is breaking into my house. The hamster was WRONG and I’m happy about that except I may never fall asleep again.