Slaying The Boogie Man

I’m staying home alone tonight.

That’s a big no no for me.

My roommate is out of town for the night . Not too big a deal, normally. But the lock on the door has decided not to work. And the basement… don’t get me started on the basement. Just don’t.

I thought about getting a room in town at a hotel with a treadmill and just taking a Me-Break, but the idea of running from my fear just doesn’t set well with me. I mean, I’m a big girl now. I need to get over this whole paranoia thing. It’s time to face this demon.

But first, I have to put curtains on the windows.

No rods. No nails. No nothing.

Improvise. Improvise.

Standing in the middle of the room, I check the time. About two hours to sundown. I got two hours til the scary thoughts come out.

Problem: No curtains. Solution: Strip the curtains off the windows in the rooms I don’t go in. Put them on the windows in the rooms I do go in.

Problem: No curtain rods. Solution: Break dowels in half and use bread twisties to make a loop. Hang those loops on a thumbtack. Now, something clip-like….

I remember seeing clothes pins somewhere. In the kitchen drawer.

The kitchen stops me in my tracks. Yikes. There’s that damn basement door.

I’m distracted for a few minutes while I wrestle the kitchen hutch in front of it.

What was I doing? Oh yes, clothes pins.

Now, clip the curtains to the dowels. Too short. Okay. We’re not going for Home Beautiful, here. Turn them sideways. Yeah, baby. Martha Stewart eat your heart out.

There is still the small detail of the front door. Problem: No lock.  Solution: No problem. Country girls can survive, right?

One hour til sundown.

Breaking the cardinal rule of paranoid agoraphobia, I go outside and drag the wood boxes inside. The crew has been diligent to fill my (cardboard) wood boxes with the wood stripped from the concrete forms, but those big strapping boys forget that old ladies aren’t as strong as they are. Right now, I’m grateful for their diligence, but I’ll just bet they never thought I’d be using them for a door stop.

Stack the big one against the inside. Good and heavy. There. That’ll do the job.

Living room. Basement stairs. No door.

Crap.

I drag the recliner across the room, propping it sideways against the opening. On the inside, I stack the other two wood boxes and step back, surveying my handiwork. It sure as heck won’t stop anyone, but the noise will announce their arrival.

Lights. Candles. Bullets.

Aw crap. The bullets are outside in the truck. The gun is under my pillow. That’s not going to work. I need for them to be in the same place at the same time, even though I’m not sure guns work on imaginary creatures.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

Wait.

I used to keep extra ammo in my satchel. The satchel that is in my closet.

BINGO.

I load the little fella in the holster and instantly feel better. Dusk is settling. Big girl panties are on. I’m ready to slay me some boogie-men.