I'm a Big Chicken

There's a reason I don't read mystery novels or watch scary movies. I couldn't read Nancy Drew books at night when I was growing up because I would get scared. I've never picked up a Stephen King novel and sometimes even the suspense in a Brad Meltzer novel freaks me out at night. And please, when I'm visiting you, do not tell me about the woman that died in your house 6 months before you moved in (Dave & Linda - are you listening???). I will NEVER get to sleep. I will lay awake all night imagining all sorts of things.

That's right, I'm a 29 36 year-old chicken.

Tonight, I had a great night at Tim and Tony's birthday party for Elvis, or as I kept referring to it, an Epiphany party. I had a few cocktails, but stopped drinking at least 2 hours prior to Christopher driving me home. I ran into some old friends, one I hadn't seen in 15 years. It was great to catch up.

So completely sober, I crawl into bed about 2:20. As I lay there reviewing my gratitude list in my head (yes, I do this nightly), I hear this horrible crash. Ross, who had previously been snuggled up against me, and Betsey, who had been at the foot of the bed, were now firmly positioned under the bed (where better to fight potential terror threats?). I reach for the phone, but resist my urge to dial 911. I'm a grown up after all and it can't be anything. Plus, I live in the suburbs. I calmly get up and just peak out the window through the slightly ajar shutter. I can see nothing but darkness.

And then it happens again. BOOM.

Before I know it, I'm stammering on the phone with 911, barely able to utter my own name. I'm terrified. The sweet woman on the other end of the line was so calm asking me questions - was I alone? was the noise from inside or outside of the house? were any pets barking? Before I could finish answering, the cops were on their way.

About 5 minutes later, I could see a man walk up my driveway. He had a big stick in his hand and barely paused at the car in my driveway. He just headed straight for my backyard. I hadn't seen any cop cars pull up, so now my terror level has gone from 8 to 15. With my heart now beating outside my body, I call 911 again to report the "intruder." Another nice woman assures me that it is in fact the cop. He's gone to my backyard to look around, as is standard protocol before he comes to chat with me.

As I continue my vigil on the front yard, I am suddenly surrounded by Arlington Heights' finest in no fewer than 3 cars. And then the doorbell rings. Betsey, Ross, and I were so startled we hit our heads on the ceiling. I try to remain calm as I walk to the front door to speak with the officer.

He was so nice and reassuring and asked me a few questions about the noise but said he saw no footprints anywhere around the house. As I'm answering, I suddenly see the culprit laying on the ground, not 5 feet from my bedroom window. And now I also see the entire platoon of officers walking up my driveway. And my terror has suddenly switched to sheer embarrassment.

What has just caused me so much agony you wonder? Falling ice. Three huge pieces of ice that had been on my roof, and because of the record thaw we are experiencing this weekend, had slid off the roof and landed on the cement outside my bedroom window.

The cops were all relieved because they were expecting to see a car driven into a tree on the parkway. I was just embarrassed. They told me they hoped I got to sleep tonight and off they went.

The thing is that even as I write this my hands are still shaking. Yep, I'm just a big chicken.

UPDATE 1/8/2008: So I've taken a little ribbing for this and it's ok. I can handle it. I can handle the wellness check I got yesterday during a rare January thunderstorm (I love thunderstorms, for the record). And I can handle the insinuation that my friend's 3 year-old daughter is braver than I am because, although she was also woken up by falling ice on Saturday night, they did not need to call 911. Of course not, my friend is a cop and would have been laughed out of the department.