2 False Alarms + A Real One, or 3 Cheers for the Police

Hubby on retreat since Thursday; he's the early riser (who usually turns off the alarm), so we've managed to accidentally trip the alarm a couple of times in his absence. Eldest Weed had dubbed this "The Weekend of False Alarms."

After Mass I took the kids for a Sunday doughnut, put the little guys down for naps and settled into a nice cup of joe (I've always wanted to call coffee "joe") and my preciouses (the papers).

Ding-dong. Some guy at the door --same haggard fellow I'd seen walking down the street with a gas can on the way home. Smiles as if he knows me, tells me his name with the evident expectation this will be his password to admission into our home.

Sorry, Sir, never heard of you says I. Sure you have he says --there's your daddy right behind you. (No one is with me). Poor man --doesn't seem to be stoned, but he is demented in some way. Says he lived here. Could be; the family name he gives rings a bell from neighborhood lore --parents who took in some 15 foster kids were here some 15-20 years ago.

He finally gets the idea that I am not letting him in the house, but he stays on the premises. Sets down his gas can, starts testing the doors of the neighbors' cars, keeps coming back to our place as home base. Eldest Weed & I say a Hail Mary for him. Call the cops and a nice officer runs him off. I say to EW, "He's coming right back as soon as the cop leaves."

Sure enough an hour later, I'm reading the papers and the alarm goes off. What the-? How the heck did this demented guy get the door open? Call the cops and go down to confront the guy --Sir, you have to get out of here RIGHT NOW. I am pushing the door shut and him out in one move.

Cops arrive and I watch from behind the door until the officer beckons me out. Two things, Ma'am, he says. First, we're going to file an emergency medical directive so we can take him to the hospital and get him some help. Sorry I didn't do it earlier --I hoped he would leave after a good talking to, but he has a fixation with your house.

Don't worry, I say, I can see he means no harm, but I can't have an unstable guy around --I've got little kids.

I understand, Ma'am. And, Ma'am --one more thing.

Yes, Officer?

"Nice job with the house." (We recently got rid of the awful Pepto-Bismol pink trim the house came with).

Your local police. For all your safety and ego needs.