An Ode to Three Douche Canoes

(My Open Letter to the Ass Hats Who Tried to Break Into My Home…While I Helplessly Watched)

__________________________________________

Dearest Douche Canoes:

Like I didn’t have enough trust issues.

So there I was a coupla weeks ago, working from home on a Monday. And guess what kind of Monday it was? Not a Love-Hate Monday, no not at all — but a LOVE-LOVE Monday. As in a “My-kids-are-coming-home-my-kids-are-coming-home-MY-KIDS-ARE-COMING-HOME!!!!!” Monday.

I was breathless with excitement at the prospect of my children returning safely to my home and looking forward to a magical day.

Little did I know that there you were, driving up to my house in your sun-bleached, trashy, light blue, 80s-style, Toyota Corolla-ish crapcar. It was about 10 in the morning, just after I had completed a writing assignment and just before I was going to take a shower.

You parked in my driveway, and then two of you proceeded to come up to my door and start pounding the living shit out of it.

Because, you know, that’s totally going to make me want to open it and see who’s there.

Instead, I walked into my daughter’s empty room (whose second-floor window overlooks the driveway), spied your pile-o’-poop car, saw the guy who remained in the car and heard two of you conversing at my door while you pounded away.

I thought to myself, “Self,” (because that’s the crazy moniker I call me while addressing me in the second person), “…better not answer the door. There are three of them and one of you, and you don’t recognize them. And they seem awfully insistent, what the persistent pounding and such.”

So I watched. And waited. And waited. And watched.

And you pounded. And pounded. And pounded some more.

Then suddenly, I heard something truly bizarre.

What was that sound you ask, dumbasses? It was the ominous sound of silence as the pounding suddenly stopped…followed almost immediately by the clatter of the two of you OPENING THE GATE TO MY BACKYARD.

“Hmmm,” I thought to myself. “Why would these people be coming into my backyard, I wonder?”

I’m so fucking naïve.

I then proceeded to the bathroom window that overlooks the walkway leading to my backyard, where I saw the two of you. On the other side of the private gate. IN MY BACKYARD!

“Perhaps it’s the guys here to mow my lawn,” I thought to myself, momentarily forgetting that I would have needed to hire “the guys” to actually “mow my lawn” in order for this to make any sense. “I’ll wait to see if they go to their teeny tiny little shabby car and pull out a giant lawnmower.”

Remember that time Mary Poppins pulled a coat rack out of her magical bag? I was imagining the exact same scene. Minus the talking birds, of course. And the magical bag.

But alas, you did not. Instead, I watched as you proceeded to pull out a pair of gloves. From the pockets of your black hoodies. (Yip. You can’t make this shit up.) And then put them on. And start sneaking around toward the back of my home, whispering the entire way.

“Shit.” I thought to myself. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“I guess I’m not getting a free mow today.”

But here’s what you didn’t count on: I am wise, connected and technologically savvy, you little boneheads. Because I have that modern techie marvel called an iPhone. Because I no longer have a landline, but my phone is always within close reach, right here in the pocket of my …

“Shit.” I thought to myself. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

My phone. It’s not in my pocket.

“Self?” I second-personed myself again. “Where is that stupid modern technie marvel called my iPhone?”

I retraced my steps in my head. Before the front-door poundfest began, I had just been downstairs chopping veggies for a magnificent/healthful/tasty soup that would serve to welcome my adorable children home this afternoon.

Very Mary Poppins, dontcha think?

Yip, downstairs next to the vegetables. That’s where my iPhone is.

Right next to my wide-ass open sliding glass door, welcoming in the gorgeous 75-degree breezes on this glorious Monday morn.

And apparently, also welcoming in you three dinglewads — whom I’ve lovingly nick-named Dicklips, Pumpkin Head and Chad.

Now I was faced with a dilemma: Stay in my bathroom, lock the door, curl up in the fetal position, suck my thumb and wait to be fucking killed. Or run like the wind downstairs, close and lock the slider, grab my phone and run back to my bathroom perch.

I chose the latter.

I ran. Like the wind. Stealthily and sneakily, but fast and furious nonetheless. I bounded toward the slider, closed and locked it, grabbed that stupid modern techie marvel called my iPhone and feverishly dialed 911.

I then resumed my bathroom post overlooking you. You, Dicklips and Pumpkin Head, were still in sight, while Chad had apparently emerged from the crapcar and resumed pounding on my door – the obvious watchman in case I came home. Or decided to suddenly answer the door.

I then saw you, Pumpkin Head, pull out a knife. You walked toward the man door leading into my garage…

(An aside: Why the fuck are they called “man doors,” anyhow? Do only men go through them? Do women not warrant a door to themselves? Should I take this up with the ACLU? Should I not be concerned about this pesky detail at this point in my story, what with the knife and all?)

The knife. Oh yeah, back to the knife. And the hoodies. And the gloves.  And the sound of you trying to pry open my dead-bolted door, the  very door which is conveniently located right below the window from which I was watching you.

(Quick tip, Pumpkin Head: Hoodies make your already giant noggin only appear giant-er. Like, globe-like in size. Perhaps next time, a svelte skull cap? Just a thought.)

So I’m on the phone with 911 busting your sorry asses. The dispatcher gets a full description of two of the three of you (sadly, I’ve never actually seen Chad, only his hairy legs in the back of your car), and now she has assured me a couple of times that officers are “en route.”

Except I don’t hear sirens. I don’t see cops. And suddenly, I don’t see you either – neither your giant globe-head nor your friend’s greasy black hair peeking out from under his slimy black hood.

I’m stuck in my bathroom not knowing if you’re in my house? Or not? Because last I saw, you had a knife, you were trying to get into my man door and now you are gone. Poof. Like Mary Poppins again, this time after she snaps her fingers. Only minus the spoonful of sugar. And adding in nefarious intentions.

About 15 minutes of a full-on panic attack later, a cop shows up. A cop. As in, singular. With the gate to my backyard wide-ass open, he follows protocol and refuses to enter until back-up arrives. Not that he has a gun or anything. Or that I’m trapped alone in my house without a single way to protect myself.

But whatever.

So anyhow, I watched him from my bathroom window too, considering a friendly wave and maybe even holding up my fingers in the casual “Call me???” position. But I decided against and hid from him, too. I don’t know why, exactly. Just seemed the trend for the day.

After another 10 minutes, I see two motorcycle cops pull up, and the triumvirate — the holy trinity of fearless policeman posse-ness — enters my backyard.

But you have already fled. Cowards.

And I don’t know what spooked you. I’m not sure if you saw my purse sitting on the kitchen island and the pile of carrots and celery on the cutting board as you snuck around and peered through the sliding glass door that I had locked only moments before. I’m not sure if you heard my desperate pleas to the 911 dispatcher, asking her for fucking help. I’m not sure if you caught a glimpse of my giant eyes, watching you and your gloves and your knife and your smarmy demeanors from the window in my bathroom.

My very small bathroom. The one with the walls that were closing in on me. Because I’m claustrophobic AND being robbed by three knobs with a knife while I helplessly watch.

But what I do know is that you were gone by the time Reno 911 arrived.

(Actually, no disrespect to the police officers. I just love the fact that I actually live in Reno, and I actually called 911, therefore Reno 911 is entirely appropriate. If not evocative.)

And the posse’s verdict: The robbery was unsuccessful, with the only scars being from a knife to the man door.

“You’re lucky,” Lieutenant James “Jim” Ronald Dangle said (at least I think that was on his shiny gold name tag…). “You’re unharmed, and nothing is missing.”

Unharmed, huh? Clearly, he hasn’t read my blog.

And even though nothing seems to be missing, I do find myself without a few necessities these days. Namely:

  • Security. I am now newly uncomfortable in my life as a full-time home-based freelance writer. Every sound during the day, and I’m jumping up, bounding down the hall and peering out the window. You see, there has been a rash of burglaries in recent weeks in my quiet, charming neighborhood, and they’re targeting homes during the day because that’s when most people are at work. Except for me, apparently. Stupid freelance writing career. Suddenly, the prospect of working an 8-to-5 from a (safe) sea of cubicles is becoming more and more appealing…
  • Sleep. Ahhhh, that magical elixir to soothe the exhausted soul seems to be even more elusive than usual. I awaken to every noise, unless I’ve drugged myself with Benadryl. For the “allergies,” of course. Many, many allergies.
  • Trust. Oh wait. I didn’t have that before, either. Never mind.

But, Dicklips, Pumpkin Head and Chad, you have also given me a few things for which I’m oh-so-grateful, including by not limited to:

  • A free pass to enjoy a noon margarita (or two – maybe four…) following the ordeal.

    Margarita numero uno. With an extra shot for good measure…

  • The need for a new padlock, an ominous warning about my giant fucking (yet, oddly silent and invisible) dog and the desperate urge to rip off my neighbor’s security system sign and nail it to the front of my house. Illuminated with a spotlight. Surrounded by reflective tape. Underlined in neon highlighter.

    The scene of the crime — after the crime. And hopefully,serving to prevent future crime.

  • Guilt trips. Boyfriend Brett has become somewhat insistent that we either get an a.) gun or b.) scary dog. I’m reluctant about both, but Brett thinks I’ll cave about the b.) scary dog, so now he has started secretly placing pix of adorable pound pooches as screensavers that pop up at random times throughout my day.

    Meet Charlie. Brett thinks he looks like a killer.

    Even my kids have gotten in on the ploy – my son recently leaving this on my desk:

  • Heightened awareness. I scour the newspaper, troll local TV news sites and read every “Alert ID” warning that visits my inbox. I’m looking for signs that you’re either still terrorizing others – or perhaps even that Dangle has detained your sorry asses. So when I read the local story the other day about the armed bandit who was arrested after severely beating a woman who walked in on him robbing her home? Yeah, there was some relief. But also awareness of what might have happened to me had you found me in my bathroom. Curled up in the fetal position. Sucking my thumb. Just waiting to be fucking killed.

OK. Gotta go…I hear a car pulling into my driveway. Or maybe that’s the sound of my gate opening? Or just another piece of my already-broken trust, shattering still further.

Bye now. Write!

XOXO,

Mikalee

__________________________________________

Now it’s your turn, dear friends and readers:

  1. Any words of comfort to share with me, the new poster child for Post-traumatic Stress Disorder?
  2. Have you ever had an experience with similar ill-intentioned douche canoes…or with a Reno-911-esque police response?
  3. Would you say your last Monday was better or worse than mine? Because I’d seriously love a happy story about your happy day/life right about now…

Oh…and as a parting gift from The Universe: Guess what I found while driving near my home the very next day?

Road-fucking-kill. This is the third one, folks — in the last year. Funny, Universe…funny…