Thursday, February 23, 2006

Good Morning, Merry Thug!

So that's what I look like fuscia, as Kevin thinks I should be. What do you think? Does it suit me? I still think I'm black.

In the grand tradition of waking me up in fucked up ways, this morning there was a knock at my door. Now, anyone who knows me knows that coming to my door at 8 a.m. is a bad idea. Naturally, I was too asleep to notice. However, The Tina woke up, and I guess I heard her open the door or something, because I heard the last knock, and looked out the window to see a Rutherford County Sheriff's Deputy car in my driveway.

I was curious, but not curious enough to get out of bed - Tina was already at the door anyway. Apparently they rang the doorbell, but I didn't hear it.

I heard her tell them we'd been living at the house since June (actually April, but who cares), and then they left.

Apparently, they were looking for the previous renters of this place - it's the guy's last listed address. Obviously wanted people don't notify authorities of their new residences. They usually aren't THAT dumb. I stress the word "usually" here. They had no more business with us, and I was free to go back to sleep.

Whew! I thought maybe they'd run a background check on me and discovered nothing. A few of you will get the humor and that. The rest of you can mull it over.


Manda said...

This post made me smile...

...It also reminded me of that strange, one-month period during which the telephone pole in our front yard got struck by lightening and messed up our phone line, making it impossible for us to hear the people who were calling our house. They could hear us, but we couldn't hear them, unless we beat the handsets repeatedly, which, while fun, is annoying, and, ultimately, painful. We would have to say, "Hello? Hello? ...I'm sorry, I can't hear you. Our phone is broken. If you're someone we'd actually want to talk to, odds are you have our cell phone numbers. Unless you're Granny, and lost them. In which case, we're really sorry..." -and then we'd hang up.

The real point of this story (and there is one) is that every morning, at approximately 6:45 a.m., our phone would somehow dial 911, and every morning, two Rutherford County Sheriff's Department cars would screech up our driveway. One officer would get out and shine a flashlight at our madly barking dog (which I suppose is better than training a gun on the poor, elderly, mostly-toothless golden retriever/freaking Welsh courgie mix who has no tail because she had scabies...), and the other officer would come and bang on our door. Once, since the door is kind of broken, it popped open.

My mother stumbled out of her bedroom to see why the dogs were going apeshit, and was greeeted by a uniformed police officer standing in the living room looking suspiciously like he had been rifling through the mail on the table. He then kept his hand oh-so-casually on his gun, and interrogated my pyjama-clad mother, at 7 in the morning, in her own living room. Yayh, phone.

...I don't know why I wrote this out. I'm hella tired. I think I'll go sleep. Sorry.

Wendy said...

Your comment made me happy. I forgot that pyjamas used to have a "y" before the contemporaries went all "hooked on phonics" and slapped an "a" in there.

bkevcoffee said...

Now that I've seen you fuchsia, I'd have to say you're more celedon...or maybe seafoam. But still not black.

ShadowZen said...

thank your stars your last names not Buttle (changed to Tuttle)!