Kidnapping conspiracy or Vicodin haze?

Monday after work I met a friend for dinner at a swanky restaurant.

Well, she said we were meeting for dinner. In actuality we met for an appetizer and a drink. I was hugely disappointed as I’ve been drinking those diet drinks that taste like watered down chocolate and despair, and dinner at that restaurant has never failed to make me experience religion, however briefly. I stayed about an hour and headed home, sullen and hungry.

The last thirty minutes of the journey is a maze of back roads. With woods on either side it’s pitch black and not uncommon for deer or other small woodland creatures to wander out and cause a problem. Even though I know that, I don’t pay as much attention as I should. And I may or may not flatten said small woodland creatures in hopes of obliterating rabies. Fuck you PETA!

I was almost home, one road over from our gravel drive. I was singing Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer in an exaggerated country accent and moving my head like a puppet on Crank Yankers, when I had to slam on breaks.

There was a man standing in the middle of the road. He was wearing blue pajama pants and carrying a blue duffle bag. He had a beard and was puffing on a cigarette. I glared and muttered to myself as I maneuvered my car around him. He grinned at me.

When I walked in the door I was cranky. My back had been bothering me all day, my swanky meal turned to an appetizer, and some weirdo tried to make me a hit and run suspect.

“What’s the matter with you”, my mom asked.

I told her about my shitty day and when I mentioned the man she said, “The neighbors saw him too!” Then she called them and they went back to look for him, just to make sure there wasn’t any funny business going on, and he was no where to be found.

“I told your Papa about it. We think it’s probably Howard.”

“Howard? What the hell would Howard be doing around here”, I asked.

“Last I heard he was homeless and on drugs, looking for a place to stay, so he might have come around to check things out.”

My cousin Howard is a bit of an odd duck. He’s in his late 30’s, I think, and has a history of mental illness. That’s not saying all that much since most of my family is riddled with manic depression and bipolar disorder, but whatever, at least I’m sane. Right? Riiiiight.

He used to have a truck that he called “The Hump Me 2”. He spelled it out on the bumper with big, sticky letters that he later peeled off and put on his closet door. When he moved out we rented the place to a woman and her two young daughters. One of the girls had his old room and had to stare at the Hump Me 2 letters, which he’d tried to peel off, but it left a legible residue that refused to budge. That’s also the room he once shot himself in, but we didn’t tell them that. (Well, I did...but not until they were older and we started getting drunk together.)

Anyway, so I wasn’t too terribly worried about the man after hearing it might just be drug addled, homeless cousin Howard. And judge not lest I slap you in the face, people, because there’s no way in hell I’m taking in a mental druggie when I’ve got a four year old.

I forgot about it and went about my business. And my business turned out to be throwing my back completely out. It went from irritating pain to “FUCK I can’t move from this stooped position and if anyone touches me I’ll...whimper in pain”.

I thought I was going to die. I had to go lie down so I could moan in the privacy of my room because Ray complained he couldn’t hear the T.V. Whatever. Who really wants to watch a bunch of Mormon kids sing A cappella pop songs?

So I went to bed and watched Smallville on DVD. (Don’t judge me; fake teenage super heroes are the bee’s knees.)

But after a while I started to get nervous. Everyone else had gone to bed and there I was, stretched out helpless on the bed, with pull down blinds that are half an inch too short on each side so anyone could look in if they wanted. Not to mention that every now and then the dogs in the area would sound off, causing me to look toward the windows and bite my bottom lip.

I started to think:

What if it wasn’t Howard? What if it was an ex con escaped from a local jail? What if he was sleeping in my unlocked car or peeking through my blinds? What if he stole my cigarettes I left in the console?

If my back hadn’t hurt so badly I would have gotten up and retrieved them from the car and locked it. But after briefly chatting with a friend (who today told me he would like to be called “Krull the warrior king”, and I just this second realized that’s a quote from a chick flick called How to Lose a Guy in 10 days, and I plan on teasing him mercilessly) I finally fell asleep.

The next morning was hell. I was very late for work because I couldn’t move well and I had a ton of reports to get done before the department Christmas party. When I walked slowly and stiffly into the office with my pillow and heating pad clutched under my arm, the women stormed me, offering sympathy.

During the course of the day my mom called me four or five times. She had the day off and was doing her Christmas shopping with The Grandmother (which is probably why I got a fucking Snuggie) and wanted my opinion on this or that. By the time her last call came through, I’d had enough.

“WHAT NOW”, I shouted when I picked up the phone.

“Papa called the police to report that man being in the area.”

“That’s great”, I said sarcastically.

“And he found out that other people have reported him being in the area for the past week or so.”

“Ok...”

“And the outside motion lights have been cut. They think he’s been sneaking into the office and sleeping there at night.”

“Oh shit.”

She continued talking, but I was in another world.

It really wasn’t Howard! Someone was going to kill me in the dark when I got out of my car! I was never going to have sex again! That thought was enough to make me burst into tears.

I began compiling a list in my head off all the men that could possibly want to do away with me:

1. My cousin’s husband:

He hated me from the moment we met for calling him a meat head. Which, by the way, is entirely accurate and the nicest thing I could ever bring myself to call him. He wasn’t above sneaking around on his wife. Who’s to say he wasn’t sneaking around the neighborhood in pajama pants, plotting his revenge?

I quickly discarded that idea. After all, the guy can’t even spell revenge, let alone plan it. Not to mention he doesn’t have a stupid beard.

2. Mr. Fisher Price:

I’ve been avoiding him on and off for years. He’s been pining after me, waiting and watching. Who’s to say he hasn’t finally snapped and taken to wandering about, ready to pistol whip me into submission? What if he’s been spying on me this whole time through those stupid gapped blinds and jacking off with tweezers underneath my window? ‘Cause trust me on this, that thing won’t even cross his palm. There’s no way in hell he’s beating that Vienna sausage without some kind of help. I’d imagine giving him head would be the equivalent of sucking on a ring pop...without the pleasant flavor.

But no, it’s likely not him either. He’s a fireman (not THE fireman, of course) and they aren’t allowed to have beards. And he also once told me he (shudder) doesn’t wear pajama pants...or anything else of the sort.

3. My mom’s ex boyfriend SpongeBob:

The guy is probably one of the creepiest fuckers I’ve ever met. His eyes are really close together; he’s got jet black hair that looks like a duck’s ass, and body wise he looks like a potato with those growths they get when you leave them in the bag too long. (Sprouts?) And let’s not forget the SpongeBob tattoo on his leg! Seriously?

He asked a mutual friend if I was single. ME. The daughter of his ex girlfriend. Every time I think about it I throw up a little in my mouth. That line from Silence of the Lambs plays in my head every time I see him or hear his name: “It puts the lotion on it’s skin or else it gets the hose again.”

But it couldn’t be him...the build was entirely different. This guy was taller and definitely not old potato-esque.

4. Lunch box boy:

Let’s assume he isn’t gay and definitely wants a crack at my ass cheeks. He could be irritated enough from the phone and coffee incident and the lunch box insult to follow me home. He’s...

Too tall. Damn it! I probably would have liked that one. “It’s ok if you hate me. There IS such a thing as hate sex, you know. Sure, I’ll shut up. Hey, what’s in the box?”

5. It could be the guy I slapped in the face because his performance left much to be desired....6. Or the one that was barely legal (Yeah, don’t mention that to anyone) who wanted to move to Texas and have babies...7. Or the hairy one that I threw that pity fuck at that never got over my vaginal awesomeness.

There are just so many options.

So last night I went home and took some Vicodin. For my back, you know. And when I went to bed I was thinking about it (my possible murderous stalker being “it”) and I decided I was going to sleep with my metal baseball bat for protection.

Because lets be honest here: My back was killing me and my karate skills are over a decade old. I can still probably do the leg sweeper move, when I’m not bent over in agony. The metal baseball bat was necessary since people who shall remain nameless don’t think I can be trusted with a firearm. Something to do with PMS.

So I fell asleep hugging the bastard. The bat, not the actual bastard.

When I woke up this morning I felt a lot better. No one had heard or seen anything the night before and according to our neighbor, Larry the goose recently attacked a visitor and would probably give my stalker the ole’ one two if he got too close.

Now it’s just a waiting game. Will I survive to deface the internet another day? Will I be arrested for striking an innocent man with my metal bat? Or will I be kidnapped, lotioned, and put in a hole?

Stay tuned.