Worst Weekend Ever

The danger, of course, in stating that I've had the worst weekend ever is that I'm offering up the possibility that a worse one will come along, bumping this one up to "not-so-bad."

When I went to bed on Friday, I was looking forward to sleeping in. My husband was out of town, so no one coming in to say, "You're still sleeping? It's 10:30." But no, it was simply not to be. Around 6:45, Saturday morning, I awoke a strange sound. At first, I thought it was just the wind. We live in a new house without many trees, so sometimes, when the wind gets really going, it makes the house creak and rattle. But no. When I listened closely, I determined I was hearing the scampering of little feet, back and forth, and NOT THE GOOD KIND. I jumped right out of bed, totally freaking out. An animal seemed to be running back and forth, right behind my head. Of course, our bed backs up to a wall so...yeah, you know where this is going. I had an undentified type of animal taking up residence in my freaking bedroom wall. Of course, this happens when my husband--males have the gene that allow them to be non-squicked out by such things--is out of town.

I grabbed my pillows and the dogs and headed downstairs. The dogs, by the way, showed absolutely no interest in this creature running merrily back and forth with only an inch or two of drywall between it and me. I began calling animal control people, but of course, no one's working at 6:45 on a Saturday morning. I left messages and finally laid down on the couch to try to get more sleep while endeavoring not to imagine that every little thing I felt was an animal crawling over me. *full body shudder*

Someone called me back at around 9:00 and arranged to come out and have a look, but the earliest time was for Monday, today. I agreed.

Saturday night I slept on the couch. Worst night of sleep. Dogs, confused by our unusual sleeping location, kept pacing the floor. I kept thinking that they were going to pee in a corner or something, thereby making my weekend even worse. They behaved themselves in that regard, but the pacing kept me awake. As most of you know, I'm not a morning person and with little sleep, I'm not a DAY person. Period. So, Sunday I woke up on the wrong side of the couch. A little crabby, a little reactionary. I explain this so you'll understand what remarkable restraint I showed later in the day.

Sunday afternoon, I went to Target--the best store in the whole world--to pick up a few things. When I came back, I found the neighbor children playing in our backyard. Okay, my first impulse was to go out there and tell them to go play in their yard because 1) my property is my liability suit if they get hurt and 2) it's my yard, damnit, and they're being loud. But I resisted, remembering what it was like on the rare occasions that I would play outside as a child. Someone else's yard is always way more interesting than your own. Plus, I didn't want to get the reputation as the mean lady without any kids.

So, I didn't say anything...at first. Then I heard their ball--a softball-sized tennis ball, never seen such a thing before--hit the house. I calmly proceeded to my sliding glass door and asked them nicely to play away from my yard and house. Because at the time I thought, oh, my husband is going to kill somebody if that ball dented the siding. But wait...it gets better.

I went upstairs to finish working on some writing stuff and the phone rang. I went to pick it up in our bedroom--you know the wild animal-infested one?--and saw that one of my bedroom windows is now cracked. Thank you, softball-sized tennis ball. Great. Great. Great.

So I go downstairs and head out across the yard. Keep in mind I've never seen or even met the adults in this house. The first time I'm meeting them is to tell them that their kids broke something of mine. I feel like that crabby old woman who lives across the street from the Scavos on Desperate Housewives. Though, those children are awful...

As I'm walking to their house, I asked the kids, did you hit the window? No, no, we never touched your window, etc. Of course. So, I asked for the mother of the house and got the babysitter instead. I showed her the crack and gave her my name and number and asked her to please have the parent(s) call me when they return.

Of course, it's now more than 24 hours later and I haven't heard from them. *sigh* That means more confrontation. Ick. I hate that. On top of which, the husband is not happy to hear about the window. And I know he won't be as easily turned away, explanation-wise, as I was. So much for a group sing of "Won't you be my neighbor?"

That was my weekend. How was yours?