I had just settled the kiddos down for their afternoon naps. Aiden went down for the third time (it takes him a while every afternoon-he gets back up about four times to inform me he only took a baby nap, he wants to color, or his toy is orange-you know…the important stuff) when there was an incessant ringing of the doorbell. Can I just say that people who ring doorbells in the middle of the day are a little thoughtless? Side tangent: I’m seriously considering making a cute PERMANENT little sign that ever so non intimidatingly states: DEAREST thoughtless RUDIES: Children are napping. Leave the package. I’ll find it later. No, I don’t want your Gideonite Bible, Religious pamphlet to be filed under “other” or useless-to-me lawn service. STOP trying to sell me your crap unless you are the Girl Scouts and you have Thin Mints. If it’s after one in the afternoon, babies are sleeping. I am currently finessing the art of coordinated naps. GO AWAY.

Anyway, back to the doorbell ringage... I was sitting on the couch feeding Malone. And…cue the Incessant ringing. At first I ignored it and scolded Chloe who had flown into torrential fits of snarl induced growls. I literally thought she was going to throw herself at the door. I was too busy with a hardcore scolding of miss Prozac to realize what was happening on my lawn.

“ROOM SERVICE!!! ROOOOOM SERVICE!!!” I thought that was what I heard, in garbled sentences through the front foyer, but then dismissed it. Is someone seriously yelling for me to answer the door? I thought to myself. Surely the man who’s voice was floating through my house was UPS. I was expecting a package, (I didn’t think I would have to sign for towels) but I set a non-too obliging, ravenous Malone down, rearranged my woman parts, and, irritatedly, went for the door. Without even thinking, I opened it. I had to shove my snarling fifty-pounder ball of nerves to the side, but I still opened it.

That was stupid.

There was a chopper in my driveway. I’m not a motorcycle kinda gal but I have to say, this one looked like a Harley. I was too far away to tell, but it definitely had the low riding high handles going on, and the fire down the sides kinda vibe. Pretty sweet. It’s owner, a man dressed in motorcycle paraphernalia (as well as a healthy dose of narcotics) who looked to be in his mid to late 40’s was pacing, standing a good distance back in my yard.

“Mrs, Iris? Is Mrs. Iris here?” He began, immediately. Apparently what I thought was being screamed as ROOM SERVICE but thought I had misunderstood for POSTAL service was actually “MRS. IRIS. Mrs. IRIS.” My bad. {Both made absolutely no sense.}

For a moment, it felt like I was on the phone with someone who reached the wrong number. I didn’t know you were allowed to repeatedly ring someone’s door in the middle of the day and then act all confused in person when they answered.

“Uhhh, No. Iris doesn’t live here,” I responded to a slightly irritated Harv (we’ll call him Harv) as I continued to push the snarling protector, Chloe, back. Harv definitely fit the part with his skinny jeans, white tee and leather vest. And he kind of gave me a funny feeling. Harv was a little off.

I had opened my door to him in the middle of the day.

At this point he continued to pace my yard, examining my home. “Are you sure Iris doesn’t live here?” He looked around and then down at his hand into what looked like a crumpled check. “You haven’t ever gotten a 1400 check slid under your door, have ya?”

“Uhhh, No.” I replied. Looking down at the tile in my entryway, baffled, as if I half expected a check to materialize from nowhere right beside Chloe’s eager feet. Don’t we all wish we found 1400 smacks under our doors?

“You sure?” his voice had an accusatory tone to it.

“Yes, I’m sure.” I replied, my own voice becoming a bit incredulous.

“Do you know where an elderly lady named Iris lives?”

“There’s an elderly lady who lives behind us, but I’m not sure if that’s her,” I responded politely, I was eager to bring the conversation to an end, my hand still perched on the door latch. I’ve seen way too many Oprah’s about following your instincts in the face of rapists and danger. (Even though MY womanly instincts regarding the sex of a baby and pregnancy aren’t exactly up to par as of late, they are regarding psychos in my life.) So I was finished talking. Either that, or sic Chloe on him.

{Pause: If you are a psycho stalker killer and you’re reading my blog, hoping to pounce, I have a big dog. A GIANT SNARLING WHOPPER of a DOG who will rip your guts out as you scream for mercy and I laugh maniacally watching you bleed a slow painful death for trying to take any of my children. I’ll just watch you suffer. What??? Okay I’ll call an ambulance and ask you to wait in the driveway since I won’t want you to ruin my house with your gross blood. But you’ll still be in lots of pain and subsequently, big trouble…}

And then Harv began to ramble. And pace. And ramble some more. And I think he was trying to look into my windows and over my fence. He thought I was hiding Iris. And to be honest, I’ve had my fill with the local psychos lately, so I mumbled something about “Sorry, I have no clue. Good luck” And shut the door.

I decided to call Jamin and laugh, and then I realized Harv was still in the local vicinity. Harv hadn’t left. The chopper was still in my driveway and I couldn’t see Harv anywhere.

I still felt a bit uneasy, so I went around and locked all my doors while I aptly described the rude doorbell ringer / naptime intruder. Jamin was headed home, (it made him nervous) but I told him not to worry about it. He obviously wasn’t here to take us anywhere because he showed up on a chopper. I didn’t see him strapping my kids on his back and riding off into the sunset after he left me bludgeoned on the floor.

He would probs just murder us all with his giant hunting knife I was sure he had hidden in his awesome motorcycle vest. The hit man Harv, Hired out by Kanye.  

Even though his chopper remained parked, blocking my entire driveway, I completely lost sight of Harv for a good ten minutes. When I looked out my window again later, I saw him perched on the curb across the street. That was after he paced nervously in the park. And had a loud convo on his cell with his mob boss regarding a disappearing Iris. Bazaar much?

So, instead of helping Harv the sketchmeister, I did what any normal person with too much apparent time on their hands would do. I ducked out in my window and took ample photos of Harv. In case he came back. And tried to off me. That, and since I couldn’t make this stuff up, you know…a bit of spytastic-I-have-absolutely-no-life-check-out-this-weirdo-on-my-blog-action was definitely in order.

After a while, Harv gave up, lit a ciggy, and puttered off into the sunset, while I praised a formerly scolded Chloe. In the meantime I’ll be searching for Iris, the elderly meth dealer. Maybe she needs a helper. I would love to have 1400 dollars under my door. Harv was certainly ready to get his hands on some goods…