News Flash: This Just In
Given my history as a crime victim (see my September post “Pictures of the Munchkins” — I couldn’t get it to hyperlink) I tend to get a little skittish when the doorbell rings after dark. Especially if I’m not expecting anyone. Really especially if McHusband isn’t home. Since all of those criteria were met this evening I seriously considered just lying low and pretending I wasn’t home.
However, it has now been a whole five years since crime has come my way. So, feeling brave and a smidge proud of myself, and with a nine-year-old St. Bernard and five-year-old terrier version of road kill to back me up, I answered the door.
It was Across the Street Neighbor who has the perfectly behaved dogs. I figured he had come, once again, to let me know that our dog, Houdini (yes, even that is an alias), had escaped and was roaming the streets.
“Here,” he says as he hands me a packet of papers. “Sorry to bother you. There’s a felon that’s moved into the neighborhood. Just wanted to let you know.”
I read the packet. It’s a series of emails that have been exchanged among neighbors that apparently actually keep in touch with each other, and offender detail information from a state website.
Super Duper. Our newest neighbor, living a mere few blocks away and apparently sporting this season’s must-have fashion accessory, the GPS tracking device, is on parole after serving 20+ years for . . . drum roll please . . .
RAPE, KIDNAPPING, AGGRAVATED ROBBERY, AGGRAVATED BURGLARY, TWO COUNTS OF FELONIOUS ASSULT, AND last but certainly not least, ATTEMPTED AGGRAVATED MURDER.
Here’s the thing — we don’t live in a bad neighborhood that attracts scary people. Sorry if that sounds snobby or elitist, but after our inner city experiences we intentionally sought out a neighborhood with a . . . ummmm . . . safer reputation. Our neighborhood is just the opposite of scary. Actually, I recently received the Barbie email and our community was this Barbie:
Big Sellers for Christmas in Some City, Some State
Mattel recently announced the release of the improved limited-edition Barbie Dolls for the Greater ***** market:
“E’s Town Barbie”
This princess Barbie is sold only at Fancy Shmancy Mall. She comes with an assortment of Kate Spade Handbags, a Lexus SUV, a long-haired foreign dog named Honey and a cookie-cutter house. Available with or without tummy tuck and face lift. Workaholic Ken sold only in conjunction with the augmented version.
**For the Record: my handbag is a $25.00 Coach knock-off, I’ve never had cosmetic surgery, two of our three dogs are pound pups, we don’t own a Lexus, and McHusband only occasionally goes through workaholic phases.***
Incidentally, and totally off topic, here is the Cooterville Barbie:
This pale model comes dressed in her own Wrangler jeans two sizes too small, a NASCAR t-shirt and Tweety Bird tattoo on her shoulder. She has a six-pack of Bud light and a Hank Williams Jr. CD set. She can spit over 5 feet and kick mullet-haired Ken’s butt when she is drunk. Purchase her pickup truck separately and get a confederate flag bumper sticker absolutely free.
Ok, so back to the topic: scary, scary man living few blocks away.
I completely believe in repentance and forgiveness, and I realize that this man could be totally rehabilitated. From that viewpoint I feel kind of bad that all of this information about him is spreading through the neighborhood like wild fire. A guy deserves a chance, right?
However, I also completely believe in protecting my children, and myself. And did I mention that the psychologist involved in this case apparently is of the opinion that scary neighbor will pose no threat as long as he stays on his medication? I’m having stalker flashbacks.
So I’m explaining all of this to McHusband over the phone.
“And if he does go off his meds,” I say, “you know he’s going to find me, because I’m the freak magnet.”
“That,” McHusband says “is exactly what I was thinking.”
And George, if you’re out there, Tewt the Newt would say hello but he has to go make copies of the packet to pass along to other neighbors.