Can Life Get More Insane?

So for the last few weeks life has kept me fairly busy - repairing the moldy and gross wall; putting the siding up; insulating the interior; living with a dying air conditioner; raising a spider killing army - you know, the basics of living. Why just last week was spent being sleep deprived, what with all the storms we had, me fretting over my tomato plants (four of which were knocked over by the wind…stupid wind…), and trying to survive hot nights without decent a/c. Thankfully all plants survived and my peppers, tomatoes and cucumbers are thriving. So much so I had to get to canning the cucumbers into pickles so we didn’t lose our crop. Which led to bouncing between continuing renovations and canning in the sweltering heat like a madwoman. So when the trash pandas decided to make their presence known, it would be understandable that I’m laughing like a frigging lunatic here. I’m going to try to paint the picture, but I still haven’t recovered on my sleep so bear with me.

Two weeks ago, “Him” and I thought we were finally going round the bend because we kept hearing noises. Like, something or someone banging on the house sort of noises. We had dismissed it initially because of the storms. When our temperatures hit the triple digits, we knew something wasn’t right. Neither one of us could discern where the sounds came from and neither one of us was going to ask the other if they heard that. We’re getting up there in age and no one wants to admit were getting too old to trust our auditory senses. A week later, while we were tearing down the God-awful plywood off of the ceiling, I caved. Getting old be damned, the thumping was driving me nuts! “Him” didn’t hear anything and we went about our task. This was Saturday night. On Sunday, while “Him” ran to the store, I distinctly heard a knock on the front door. Buddy growling made me investigate. There was no one. Ordinarily I would have thought it was my niece playing a prank, as she is wont to do; however the timing would have indicated she would have been in bed. I mentioned it to “Him” when he came home, and we both chalked it up to neighborhood kids being bored on a Sunday night.

Parents, the following is why you need to know where your children are if you have any fondness for them.

“Him” and I got our showers and went to bed thinking nothing of the knocking Sunday night. Well, around midnight, “Him” bolted out of bed - nothing new, I do the same thing when I have a nighttime bathroom run and I don’t wanna. What clued me into it being nothing was the fact that Buddy didn’t growl or bark. Buddy is a good watch dog. A bumblebee farts within his hearing, and he growls to alert me to the potential chemical warfare of the pollinator.

….

Anyhoo, I only became concerned when Buddy growled as the front door opened and I heard a chamber round being loaded. As in, a slide being clicked to load a bullet. As in, a gun. Now, I knew “Him” had guns. I’m ok with guns - grew up around them my whole life before trigger locks and safes were a thing (we didn’t use either). I know how to shoot one and know that the only time you point a gun at a person is if you intend to kill them. It was that part that had me concerned. I didn’t want to clean blood off of the floor. I had enough to do without dealing with that messy nonsense. I got up to look for “Him” and met him coming through the door. We discussed why he was coming from outside, half naked, holding a pistol.

“Him” heard a noise at the windows. He didn’t find anything when he investigated, but he was going to stay up for a bit in case they came back. I went to bed and about 30 minutes later, so did he. This was around midnight - four hours after we went to bed. At 1:30 in the morning, Buddy growled first and “Him” bolted out of bed and left the room. The door opened and closed, loudly; which set Buddy off in a barking frenzy and he bolted from the bed to assist. Since “Him” was armed with a weapon and Buddy could bark anyone to death, I decided to head to the bathroom to take care of business. Nibbles was there to inform me that she was hungry and I was starving her to death and since we were all up, she needed sustenance. I checked her kibble bowl, scolded her she had plenty, and again met “Him” at the front door - this time he had a bigger weapon. Don’t ask what it was, I have no clue. It was bigger than a pistol, smaller than a shotgun. And it was completely surreal seeing “Him” carry it around so non-nonchalantly; like he was bringing in groceries or something.

Again, there was nothing. The neighbor happened to be outside and “Him” asked if the neighbor had seen anything. Nope. We discussed more of what could be knocking on the windows: we both decided it couldn’t be critters because the windows were too high up from the ground. We both figured it was a tweaker (someone strung out on drugs; a common occurrence in small towns) and they moved one. And because I didn’t hear the noises he had heard, I was biting my tongue in asking if he were on crack (kinda like I did to my offspring about the bat). As we were going back to bed, “Him” asked where Nibbles was (we had closed the bedroom door to keep the one place we NEED air conditioning and we didn’t want to lock her in - cleaning cat poop off of carpet is NOT fun). Other than her demand for food, I didn’t see here. WE checked under the bed and certain the cat wasn’t there, the mysterious knocker moved on, we went back to bed to sleep.

Oh, if only… At 2:45, a loud thud and glass rattling set “Him” and I upright in bed, both of us asking, “Did you hear that?” “Yes, I did.” We bolted out of bed, “Him” getting his crowd dispenser, me getting the pistol. I was beyond annoyed at this point. Whatever was out there was about to get shot. Several times. With no regrets. If it were the neighborhood kids, well, not my problem - their parents should chain them to the wall if they can’t be sure where they are at 3 in the morning. Like I said, I was already sleep deprived. I couldn’t be held responsible for my actions.

So, armed with the .22 pistol and a flashlight, I go out in my underwear and camisole, my neon white body becoming a beacon in the porch light. Again, I had no fucks to give except to get some fucking sleep. “Him” came outside (he had the sense to get pants and shoes on), looked at me and shook his head as we went in separate directions. I distinctly heard him mutter, “Redneck” under his breath.

Funny coming from a backwoods hill billy. Joke’s on him. I’m deadly enough in my underwear without a gun. One look and BOOM! Heart attack. No chance for resuscitation.

Anyhoo, while “Him” took right, I took left off the porch and into the yard; shining wherever my flashlight wherever I pointed my weapon (as is proper according to every modern military movie I’ve ever watched), checking possible hiding places throughout the yard. There was nothing. I even checked the “barn” (“Him’s” garage/outbuilding), climbing up the ladder to check the storage space. Again, nothing. I went back to the house to report when I realized that the door was unlocked, and neither of us were inside. Whomever was creeping around the house could have gone in.

Engage sweep mode. My years of being a meat shield for my son during Call of Duty kicked in. So did Aliens. I swear I had Sarge telling me to “check your corners, check those corners” in my ear as I went from room to room. I kinda felt like Lara Croft from Tomb Raider, but the middle aged version - my knees clicked like crazy as I went up the stairs to check the attic. They were probably giving away my position, but other than dropping through the ceiling (which was exposed since we were dry walling the front room), there was nowhere for the intruder to go.

Again, nothing. I was starting to question my sanity. How could both of us hear the same thing, but not find anything or anyone? I met “Him” at the door knowing he didn’t find anything either (mainly because there would have been gunshots fired). He thinks it was raccoons and as we discussed how we were going to deal them we both heard a door slam. Inside the house.

*Me: I did a sweep. There’s no on in here but us.

*Him: Are you sure? I did have to show you how to get the safety off.

*Me: I have eyes. Ass…

We heard footsteps approaching us from the ceiling. “Him” raised his bazooka of a weapon (compared to my .22). I lowered mine and flipped the safety on.

*Him: If it’s a coon…

*Me: It isn’t. Lower the gun.

*Him: Raccoons ain’t something to play with.

*Me: It isn’t a raccoon. Trust me.

*Him: If it’s not, then what is it?

MERRRROWWWW…

*Nibbles: How DARE you point a weapon of mass destruction at your Majesty! This is TREASON! Not only do you starve me to death…

*Him: How did she get up there?!?

*Nibbles: I flew! How does that prevent you from feeding your Royal Highness?!?

*Him: Should we go get her?

*Nibbles: Don’t you DARE touch me peasant! I shall…

*Me: Ignore her. She’ll figure out how to get down. It was probably her all along.

As “Him” and I continued debating whether it was Nibbles making the racket or raccoons all week, Nibbles shrieked a long, loud meow. Buddy growled low and “Him” called the dog to bed. Who knows what was said? Nibbles can be a touch bitchy.

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*Buddy: Sister, you should be nicer to Mom and Mower Man. Mommy loves you, she just doesn’t like you much because you always shout at her.

*Nibbles: Silence Ugly Cat. I care little for the wench’s adoration, just her dedication. I have spent the entire week alerting her to my feeding schedule, yet she chooses not to obey. I cannot allow that.

*Buddy(growling low): Sister…

*Nibbles: Oh shut up, Ugly Cat! I’m not going to kill her. Who would feed me then? The peasant? HAH! Just going to mess with her a little bit. Just enough to give her nightmares for months…

*Buddy(growling louder): Nibbles, I’m warning you…

*Him: Come on Bud, come to bed.

*Nibbles: Yes Ugly Cat, run along to your masters. I wonder if the raccoons will stop eating the trash long enough to send word…