I am a woman on edge.

I live in a subdivision that has attempted break-ins on a bi-monthly basis.

I'm always peeking out the front window to catch a glimpse of whatever shady sh*t is going on.

Tonight I was in the throws of laundry hell.  I like to wait until our laundry pile resembles Jabba the Hut in both smell and size and actually talks to me before I can commit.


So I did.  All five loads.

The boys were asleep.  I had just finished meticulously folding a hand towel to put into our guest bathroom.

As I rounded the laundry room corner, I saw him.  Standing in the dark in his snug fit jammies.

I levitated off the ground.  My beautifully folded towel somehow left my hand and hurled itself at Big E's sinister face.  A scream escaped my mouth before I had time to remember my other son WAS still asleep.

On the terrified spectrum, I would rate this encounter somewhere between the final scene in The Blair Witch Project (the one where they are standing in a corner facing a wall a la Poodle Yoy during a bad storm) and that moment you think you see a ghost boy hiding behind the curtains in Three Men and a Baby (maybe watch it again on super slow-mo to validate this claim).

And then I cried.  Like a baby.  They weren't even sad tears, they were just my body's reaction to Big E's hallway surprise party.

I did learn an important lesson this evening.

If (maybe when?) it is our turn to be robbed, I'm going to fend off the bad guys by hurling Downy-infused brocaded hand towels at them.

Handguns are so overrated.

You do not want to run into this guy in a dark, air-conditioned, carpeted hallway.


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