“Get off my lawn, asshole,” I said through my outdoor camera to the neighbor cat. Leering at the camera with shiny reflective retinas, he pooped on my sidewalk, mad-dogging the camera’s lens during the deuce’s entirety. (I call him Church because he looks like that undead cat in “Pet Sematary.”)
I hissed. He hissed back.
I was on vacation in Florida, screwing around with the new security camera my brother installed for me.
“Someone just came to the door,” the notification dings on my phone every time it detects motion. If you’re the one in the hot seat, a man’s voice will ask, “Hi. Can I help you?” I recently had a great time laughing at a recording of a confused UPS driver who kept trying to talk to the voice.
If only life was as simple and gay. I would yell through my camera all day.
With Valentine’s Day a toilet flush away, the holiday I typically love (quit rolling your eyes into a migraine; I like the color red, I love hearts and there’s chocolate) went a bit off the rails for me and my loved ones this year. My husband and I split last spring, and two weeks later, my mom and dad split.
Mom and I are fine — we’re roomies. We pass the early-a.m. torch when she wakes for coffee and I put my panic attack to bed. Mom is the perfect roommate. There’s nary a speck of dust to be found in the house, and she watches my kid while I work. Our worlds wildly exploded at a convenient time, so we’ve nestled into this lovely zen abode where white noise comes in the form of air purifiers, the TV is rarely on, teamwork is dreamwork and the peace, love and harmony that oozes out of us three ladies is euphoric. As we cultivated this safe space, anxieties began to temper.
Then we got robbed.
The officers in blue allege the robbery was “staged” and other things of that nature that I’m not at liberty to discuss. (Please reference Mrs. White in 1985’s “Clue” for a visual on my feelings. “Flames … flames, on the side of my face.”)
My big brother secured us with cameras, lights and peace of mind while a handyman in white jeans reinforced windows and doors with steel. This handyman extraordinaire, who belongs to Denver’s oldest Italian mafia family (recommended by my BFF), offered some “off the menu” services. We respectfully declined.
So now we’re locked in tight. The mob is on speed dial. Anyone who steps foot on this property better smile. The panic is at partial bay …
DING. “Someone just came to the door.” (Comforting, but concurrently unnerving.)
What is it, camera? What is it, boy? Who’s at the door?
As I pulled up the live feed, I see stupid Church on his arrogant perch, a sinister glare evil-eyeing the camera lens. I screamed through the camera. He scampered away, leaving a trail of shit on the lawn.
“Pick your battles, Fantz,” I said to myself as I sprinkled Zoloft over my porridge.
Maybe capo and crew can clip the cat.