So there I am this morning, minding my business on the toilet — mid-pee — when suddenly BANG!
A crash explodes through the house so loud it shakes my soul.
Rowdy, my dog, immediately loses his mind — barking like we're under attack.
It sounds exactly like someone just kicked in my front door.
I'm still peeing, mind you.
I jump up, yank my underwear on with the speed of a NASCAR pit crew, grab the gun from my nightstand, and charge into the living room like I'm auditioning for an action movie.
Nobody.
Not a single intruder in sight.
Naturally, I call Brian — because panic is my love language — and he goes full calm, rational adult on me:
"Stay on the phone. Walk through the house. Keep the gun ready."
So now I'm clearing rooms like I'm part of a SWAT raid.
Throwing open doors.
Checking closets.
Inspecting windows.
Everything is normal — until I reach the hall bathroom.
No windows.
But hey… you never know.
I nudge the door open… and THE DOOR PUSHES BACK.
At that point, my spirit leaves my body.
I scream, "I HAVE A GUN!"
Set off the alarm.
Grab Rowdy under one arm, gun in the other, and sprint out of my house — no pants, no shoes, no bra — looking like a feral raccoon fleeing a dumpster fire.
I jump in my car and peel out to the Dollar Store parking lot for safety and dignity (I found neither).
Meanwhile, the police arrive.
They call me and say, very professionally:
"Ma'am… could you please return to the scene?"
So now I'm standing in my driveway in nothing but a T-shirt and underwear, asking the officer if I can at least put pants on before discussing my potential home invasion.
He goes inside to investigate.
A few minutes later, he comes back out, trying so hard not to laugh.
"Ma'am… a curtain rod fell."
A. Curtain. Rod.
I fled my brand-new house, in my brand-new neighborhood, half-naked, screaming bloody murder…
over a piece of metal that gave up on life.
I'm done.
Stick a fork in me — I'm fully roasted.
True story this!
