A few weeks ago, Josh woke me up in the middle of the night, saying that someone was breaking in or had broken into our house. For those of you who were my roommates, you know I don't wake up very easily. So naturally, I tried to roll back over, telling him it was nothing. But Josh gets up and goes to our bedroom door, so I panic and decide to believe him. At this point we have no idea if someone is actually in our house or not. Josh goes to the top of the stairs and yells in the loudest, deepest voice I've ever heard heard him use "GET OUT OF HERE!" and then calls 911. In the meantime, I'm running around upstairs, looking for something, ANYTHING, that we could use as a weapon. Shirts, pants, a pillow? A shoe? How about my straightener? Would I have time to heat it up or should I just whack them with it?
In the end I grabbed Josh's plastic, wimpy guitar stand and tried to give it to Josh so he could use it if we needed. I say tried, because I conveniently managed to place it directly behind him, so that he turned around and tripped over it--not once, but TWICE (3 am, remember?). By this time we had figured out that someone was not in our house yet, but was knocking on the door now. Anyway to make this incredibly long story just a little bit shorter, the cops came, it was some totally wasted chic who lived on the street next to us but got confused, due to her inebriated state.
So, even though it ended up being nothing, Josh and I have been feeling very insecure in our new house. We live at the end of the cul-de-sac and our property borders the backside of a strip mall, so really anyone could hop our fence. It's crazy how this one little event, which really was nothing, totally freaked us out. I can't imagine how we would be if something actually did happen.