There's a Party on the Rooftop, Top of the World.

Last night after my fifteen minutes of fame and three glasses of chardonnay I crawled into bed with every intention of reading a few chapters of this amazing book. Then promptly fell asleep. Usually this wouldn’t be surprising. I’ve been a solid sleeper from the get-go. In fact my tendencies border on narcolepsy. I’ve slept in cafes, coffee houses, libraries, movie theaters, churches, classrooms, and while utilizing every mode of transportation under the sun. Including a bicycle.  But lately my sleeping habits haven’t been stellar.

Instead of drifting into sweet oblivion, I close my eyes and wonder if the angle of my face pressed against the pillow will accelerate my aging process. Those crows’ feet are starting to seem worrisome. Should I lie on my back? Invest in a Vitamin E supplement? Is that tinge in my back right molar a cavity? Maybe I should get up and brush my teeth again. Floss more thoroughly. Did I set my alarm? For 7am not 7pm? Is 6 minutes enough time to walk to the bus stop? What if there’s a typhoon? Or an earthquake? Do buses continue to run during natural disasters? Would I even have anywhere to go? My mind eventually runs circles around itself until exhaustion takes over and I sleep.  

But last night “fell asleep” could be synonymous with “slipped into a coma”, or “became unconscious after being walloped over the head by a grizzly bear”. So I was horribly disappointed to surface from this blissfully catatonic state around 1am. Upon waking I immediately became aware of two things:

               1) My bedroom window was wide open.

               2) Something was flailing about/potentially dying on the roof.

Since I’d let That Cat outside a few hours earlier, my first coherent thought was “a rabid raccoon is dragging her lifeless body up the roof’s steep incline to deposit it on my pillow because raccoons are sadistic fucks.” I’d like to believe this gut reaction evidences my impeccable mothering skills. Also a fundamental distrust of raccoons.

As I sat up, That Cat bee-lined out of the closet to wail anxiously in my face. Clearly not dead. Probs I should have been concerned about her concern, but mostly I felt disoriented and slow. Meanwhile, troubling scrabble/flop/grating sounds continued on the roof.

Having ruled out the psychopathic raccoon scenario, I quickly calculated the likelihood of the following: A) the Sharknado finally hit and a very small hammerhead was suffocating on my roof B) an airplane had desperately discarded the head and torso of zombie Patient Zero and the apocalypse was finally upon us or C) the construction workers from last summer were trying to break in, intent on pillaging and raping us. That last one is actually the most realistic, and caused me a pang of regret re: not arming myself per ULOL’s urging.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not biased against construction professionals in general. Even when the second-story installation they’re working on inhibits my morning topless time. Even when they talk so loud I feel like they’re standing in my bedroom. Hell, I even put up with Mariah Carey at 5am on a Saturday morning.

But Kevin, the neighbor’s contractor, was seriously creepy. Pulling up to the house after work one night he beckoned me over for a chat. He masked his disturbingly precise knowledge of my housemate’s work schedules, vehicles, and hair colors with presumably professional questions about our house. Did we own or rent? Who did our maintenance? Had we considered repainting? Then the curveball, “So how many men live with you?”

Instead of confirming that we all had gigantic Marine boyfriends/brothers/fathers that regularly checked on our well-being, I laughed nervously and replied “No men! Just three very large dogs.” I knew it was the wrong thing to say when he immediately turned to his pal with a “D’ya hear that? Just three girls live in that big ol’ house.” Fuck.

Later that week I sheepishly filled ULOL and Friend in on the conversation, and we dedicated ourselves to heightened attentiveness. Locking windows and doors, keeping a weapon within reach of our beds, etc. ULOL even asked the self-proclaimed neighborhood vigilante two houses down to keep watch. But that was months ago, and as of last night I was still woefully unarmed. At 1am, with my bedroom window wide open, and something tap-dancing gracelessly on the roof? This seemed problematic.

While many animals rely on fight or flight impulses to keep them alive during dire situations, I’m more of a “freeze” type creature. A little bit like these fainting goats. Some might argue this is actually the opposite of a survival instinct. Some people are right. I will likely die in a situation that requires springing into activity (e.g. a meteor, the zombie apocalypse, an avalanche). I had the fortitude to relatch the window, and burrowed back into the comically large collection of comically small comforters I keep on my bed. Is ignorance really bliss? Hell no. I spent most of the night pondering my imminent doom. But! I’m still here this morning.

Also turtles spent approximately 220 million years developing a similar defense mechanism, and they seem to be doing just fine.

All my love, creeps.

-b