Security System

I’m house sitting in a neighborhood that, well, isn’t on the top of America’s most desirable places to live.  The house is large and unfamiliar.  Last night I freaked out a bit.  This is an email I sent at 2am to the house owner’s and two other friends after having been asleep for only 2 hours.  Warning: Offensive language ahead:

Subject: If my life were an SNL skit….

“It would be called Security System.

So, I’m pretty sure I’m still listed as *Clarise’s and *Charlie’s somebody special in the alarm company database.

Let me share a little story.

I’m house sitting at *Louise’s and *Fred’s when and I awoke to a slow beeping much like a slow clap in an awkward 80’s rom-com only electronic at 1:30 something this morning.  I bullied myself out of bed because your neighbor’s dog (remind me to tell you a story about the mattress that used to be outside in their yard) was barking his adorable little face off. The keypad says “Check 10 basement door.” I’m freaking the fuck out because I SWEAR there’s some Columbia City ninja type shit happening at *1234 N. Snorkel and I’m about to die. I can only imagine that there’s a burglar downstairs who cut some kinda circuit and is waiting for my black ass to just open that basement door and he’s going to choke me out.  So I grab the key set with the pink nail polish panic button, my cell phone and stand in the doorway of the upstairs bathroom.  I call ADT and I’m ready to describe my last moments. So I dial 1 (800) ADT ASAP expecting to get ahold of someone relatively quickily. Because, you know, it’s an alarm company and the phone number has AS SOON AS POSSIBLE built into it.

I’m sent to some mutha fuckin prompt system and I have to make choices.  Here I am scared as hell about to crawl out the tiny side window in the bathroom and run screaming bloody murder down the street wearing a Steve Nash Phoenix Suns’ jersey and a headscarf and it wants me to make intelligent choices upon command so I can be directed to the correct operator.  Lawd a mercy. After pushing some arbitrary ass numbers I hear ringing and then there’s elevator music.  Uhm Hmm. ELEVATOR music like some shit from the Amelie soundtrack.  The system has put my black ass on hold (This is like a line straight outta some wrongfully imprisoned dude’s prison video diary).

Finally, it rings again and they’re like, “Hey, is this call about 739 Janky….something something? AKA an address that is clearly not Louise’s and Fred’s AKA Clarise’s and *Charlie’s address in Texas and I’m like nahhhh, not at all this is a call about Seattle, Washington.  The woman goes, “…huh. Okay well, what address are you calling from?”  So we get to where we need to be after she addresses me as a dude (we talk about that for 10 seconds too long) and I explain the situation.  She’s trying to convince me that this isn’t the emergency my scary movie watching behind is convinced it is. Bitch is all calm.  Me on the other hand while I may sound normal in a tape recorded version of this rendezvous  I’m sure I said the words, “Soo, is this something I need to attend to right now, or can it wait till a time with more light and I’m not fittin to pee myself? ” She says it can wait.  Of course she thinks it can wait, she’s not the one making final arrangements in her brain. Right. Now.  By the way, Garvey’s grey ass is Calm. As. Fuck. Throughout this whole ordeal.

I go back into the bedroom, lock the door and leave Rhesus and Church (the cats) to fend for their damn selves. I’m shooker than a mutha fuck. I’m hearing noises that sound like creaking doors, babies crying in the distance, and cat’s being slow murdered.   I feel like there ain’t shit I can do right now but sit on this way too comfortable bed and wait to die.  I heard a crazy ass shooting while walking to work today so my mind is already set to “Dying without cause” or “I knew I wasn’t going to make it to 80” on the PTSD dial.

I called my friend Amy and she talked me down from my perch on the ledge of unrealistic death thoughts. I barricaded the door with the dresser andmI am now writing to you from that same too comfortable bed with the pink nail polish panic button doo hickey in my lap, a juice box, my cell phone, and razor from the guest goodie basket. I’m not going down without a mutha fucking fight.  Not gonna lie, I was waaaaaay too close to calling Stan’s ass and having him come the whole the hell way down here. His girlfriend can get as mad as she wants — somebody was going to rescue my ass.

So there, if my fears are correct these are my final thoughts. If not, and I really hope they’re not, these are just the ramblings of a single woman house sitting, who watches too much scary shit on the Internet.


I haven’t been this scared in a very long time.  Living and working in the ‘hood is not good for my long-term mental status.

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