I leisurely went out my unlocked front door in glasses, day-after pool hair, nursing bra, and pajama pants this morning to check my mail when my neighborhood representative called to me from across the street.
"Mrs. Chase," he called, coming towards me. "There's a manhunt going on right now."
I looked up from my mail.
"There are four fugitives that headed towards this subdivision on foot. Just stay in your house and lock the doors."
Um. Okay. Thanks for that. I suppose I should have been less concerned with my dryer not working and more so with purchasing a hand gun.
Even though I live in the sticks, I'm still pretty paranoid. But I double checked all the locks, brought the dogs upstairs, and stared out the window at the screaming sirens and helicopters circling overhead.
We made a quick run to the neighbor's house for a little bit of company. Apparently, they were driving down the road behind my house, jumped out of their vehicle, and started running -- over the siderail, through the woods, and probably past my house. Perhaps my large sun-drying underpants scared them off.
They're still loose. I'm bunkered up.
And honestly. I know I just got to Georgia and I do need to focus on the unpacking, but what about a nice party, balloons, or hell, a stripper?
Some fucking welcome, Atlanta.
*The word on the street is that they're still loose, so they've got unmarked and marked cars everywhere in the neighborhood. I'm trying not to obsessively look out the windows but rather occupy myself with other things. Oh. Like my children.
The good thing is that no one will recognize me because I just got my hair cut. By my 3-year-old. Not on purpose. Apparently we were playing beauty salon. With real scissors.
Mommy. I'm too smart to cut my own hair. So I'll just do yours.
Oh well. I guess I was due for a change.