So I’m at home, just working diligently on my Christmas crafts (during which process, I might add, I ended up with inadvertent blue streaks of paint all over my face – not sure how that happened. I guess the intensity of the crafting process just made it all a crazy enamel-paint slinging blur) and it’s all quiet except for the sweet sounds of “Wait for iiiiiiit” coming from Netflix on my iPad. It’s getting late and I’m still wondering why Will hasn’t called to tell me goodnight, especially in light of the previous evening’s scary noise situation. Just because it turned out to be coming from the dryer doesn’t make it un-scary, okay?

Finally, he stops doing whatever he’s doing where ever he is in Houston, visiting with his aunt and uncle or eating peanut butter and banana hamburgers most likely, which is a level of “eww” that I can’t even contemplate (the burger, not the family conversations). We talk for a minute and I start describing the craftiness that I’m literally eyebrow deep in, and then he says he’s going to go take a shower before it gets too late. So, I just get back Gus and Shawn and paint and all is right with the world.

And then, I hear a scratchity sound RIGHT. OUTSIDE. ON.THE.FRONT.PORCH.

I freeze in paralyzed fear. It might just be a rustling leaf, but there’s the distinct possibility it might ALSO be a burglar. Or a giant gecko, both of which could be congregating by the front porch and both of which are equally horrifying.

The sound doesn’t stop, though. IT GETS LOUDER. AND SCRATCHIER. You know that old horror story about some crazy murdering psychopath clawing through the top of a car with his fingernails? That one? Well, that’s what this sound is like. Not cool.

And then, THE DOOR STARTS TO CREAK. And I’m still frozen with fear. There is absolutely no fight-or-flight mechanism happening, so I am not the person you want to be hanging with in a crisis situation because instead of defending you, or helping you get out of whatever scary situation we’re in together, I’ll just stand there like… an armadillo or something.

And then, THE DOOR OPENS. And my sense of mobility returns with a vengeance I seriously accidentally kicked over a bottle of rubbing alcohol (don’t ask why it was on the floor – it’s part of my project) in my FINALLY scrambling haste.

And, of course, if you haven’t figured out the punchline of this story by now, these horror-film-type noises are being generated by my husband who decided to come home a day early and “surprise me.” Any joy I might have had in seeing him was completely doused by fearful anguish and the nose assault of a full bottle of alcohol spreading all over the living room floor. According to him, he thought “I might already be upstairs, so he could have sneaked in and surprised me,” which would have been, obviously a horrible decision. Forget Cheetos lip balm or Crystal Pepsi or watching any portion of “From Justin to Kelly,” those misguided judgments are not as bad as this. Nope. Husbands the world over take note: Surprises are nice – things like flowers and romantic weekends and RG3 socks (that last one might just be me) are great ideas. Sneaking into your house in the middle of the night when you are supposed to be 200+ miles away in a shower is really, truly THE WORST IDEA EVER.

Seriously though, after I got over the shock, I was very happy to have him home. All that going around and poking things and checking cabinets was really getting old. Of course, my house still smells like a distillery, but at least the floor is completely antibacterialized and all that. And at least it wasn’t real alcohol that spilled – that would have been a true tragedy.

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