Speaking of the middle of the night, I was convinced my apartment had a home invader the other night when I got up to go to the bathroom some time around 3 a.m. Before we go on, I'd like to clarify that I've rarely actually used the words home invader in a sentence before now. And I'd never actually ever heard anyone else use it either except for that time last year in the parking lot of the Disco Biscuits concert when that girl on horse tranquilizers told me a story about the home invasion she witnessed in the middle of a party she recently attended. The words home invasion were sprinkled into her story more times than the letter A. It was equal parts awesome and terrifying. A home invasion. In the middle of the party. And I'm pretty sure there were ninjas. Or maybe they were Ohioans.
ANYWAY. The other night I was walking towards the bathroom in the dark when I heard something rustling in the dining room. Naturally, I assume someone has somehow broken into our apartment and is in the dining room AT THAT VERY SECOND probably stealing the giant chalk board we picked out of our neighbors trash last year. Or our basket of shoes. Or my oven mitt. The possibilities are
I ran back into the bedroom and shook B awake, hissing.
Me: B. B, GET UP. GET. UP, B.
B: The hell?
Me: Something is in the dining room. I think it's a home invader. Or a ghost. But most likely a home invader.
B: Did you just say home invader? What are you, on drugs?
Me: Or a GHOST. Get up.
B jumped out of bed and grabbed two pieces of 2x4 we use to prop open our bedroom windows in the summer. With a slab of wood in both hands, he led the way towards the dining room. We stopped, frozen at the threshold between living room and dining room, and listened. This time the rustling was louder and more frantic. In a panic, I switched on the light.
And there, nonchalantly sitting on top of my giant Jewish Easter basket, was a mouse. Those fuckers are back. And this house is getting firebombed. Tweet