Er...I sent Trudy links to an 8 part rpf today, and only stopped to think, "Hmm, I probably should feel badly about promoting this, but I don't really think I do."

Well, semi-upstanding. Hey, SOME of the Ps aren't R.

YAY! Ok... Here's the "fictionalized" version. And by fictionalized I mean, my name was changed to protect...well, me.

Lucy sank into the couch with her Lean Cuisine dinner and began flipping channels. I Love Lucy was on Nick at Nite. Perfect. She laughed as her namesake character began to tell Ricky how easy the workforce would be, and she settled back into the couch. After her Friday night shift at the pub down the street, some relaxation and laughter would calm her before bedtime so she could get up and do it all over again on Saturday.

She needed the extra distraction tonight anyway. When Lucy got home, three drunk men had staggered out of the triple-decker three doors down. Nervous, but not really worried, Lucy pulled the car through the third step of her precise parallel parking job and prepared to get out of the car. But then the men jumped on the bumper of her car and bounced it up and down like a pogo stick.

Lucy double-checked the locks on her two-door Honda Civic hatchback, prayed and waited. The three drunks, probably distracted by the thought of more Budweiser, eventually sauntered across the street and back inside. Trembling, Lucy jumped out of the car and flew into her building, up the stairs to the third floor apartment and rushed inside. She hurriedly turned on every light, bolted the back door and dropped the chain into the latch of the front door.

She thought about the men and how lucky she was that they were so easily distracted. Lucy shook her head. She was going to put that behind her now and just focus on the television. It was her quiet night. Her family was out of town until Saturday, and she had the entire apartment to herself – no having to share the remote with her brothers; just some quality alone time.

Just as she took the last bite of her dinner, she heard steps up the back staircase. “No big deal,” she thought. “Must be the second floor neighbors coming home.” Only, the steps did not stop on the second floor. They continued to the third floor. “No big deal,” she thought once again. “Someone’s in the wrong building. They’ll figure it out and go home.” She tried to focus on I Love Lucy – only it was a commercial break. A key clanked into the door lock and turned. Lucy lunged for the phone.

“911 Operator. What is your emergency?”

“Well, see, there were these three drunk guys outside jumping on my car, and now I think they’re trying to break into my apartment.”

“Ok, ma’am, I’m sending officers out right now. Please try to stay calm. Why do you think they’re trying to break into your apartment?”

The key still jiggled in the doorknob, but they were impatient and the doorbell began to ring. Panicked Lucy responded to the operator, “Because someone is at my back door, trying to get in.”

“Do you live with anyone else ma’am?”

“Yes. My family.”

“Could it be them?” the operator inquired as the intruders began banging on the back door.

“No,” Lucy explained. “They’re out of town until tomorrow.”

“What is your name?”

“Lucy.”

“Ok, Lucy. Do you have a peephole in the back door?”

“No. Are the officers coming?” she whispered, breathless. “They’re banging louder.”

“Yes,” the operator assured Lucy. “They’re on their way. And I can hear the banging. Is there another exit from the house so you could get out?”

“There’s a front door.”

“Ok. If it appears they’re getting into the apartment, you run out the front door and meet the officers downstairs. OK?” the operator offered, the calmness in her voice somehow making Lucy feel worse.

She thought of all of those episodes of Law and Order she watched, imagining herself the dead subject of an episode.

Terrified, Lucy curled into a ball and sobbed into the phone. The 911 operator continued to try to calm Lucy by telling her that the officers were almost there and everything was going to be okay when Lucy heard footsteps outside her front door.

“Oh NO!” she screamed into the phone. “They’re coming up the front stairs! I’m surrounded! I can’t get out now! When are the police (continued...)

( continues...) going to get here? They’re going to get me! They’re going to rape me, kill me and throw me in the Chicago River!”

“Lucy, it’s OK. The officers just turned on your street. We’re going to get to the bottom of this right now. Hang on just a moment. The officers should be coming into the building in just a minute.”

“The front door is opening,” Lucy whispered through her sobs. “There’s a chain, but I don’t think that will hold it.” She squeezed herself into the corner of the couch, as if to make herself invisible, just as Lucille Ball began stuffing her face with chocolates.

Through her panic, Lucy heard a calm, quiet voice through the door, “Lucy? Honey? Are you in there? Lucy? Sweetie? We can’t get in because all the doors are bolted. Could you let us in?”

Lucy began to cry harder. “It’s my mom. It’s my mom!”

She stumbled to the door, still clutching the phone, and dropped the chain to fling herself into her mother’s arms. Lucy’s mom took the phone and explained to the operator that there was no intruder; it was just she and her sons trying to wake Lucy to let them in to the apartment. Yes. Everyone was ok. Of course they would confirm all of this with the police. Of course it was ok if the police did a walkthrough of the apartment. Dimly, Lucy heard the phone click. She couldn’t bring herself to let go of her mother.

Lucy’s mom calmed Lucy enough to sit her back on the couch while the police did their walkthrough and Lucy’s family brought in their luggage. The police assured the still crying Lucy that no one suspicious was around, but that she did do the right thing in calling 911.

As Lucy’s family carried in the last pieces, trying not to chuckle, and Ricky admitted to Lucy that homemaking wasn’t as easy as it looked, Lucy was able to calm herself down. And when her brother asked if he, the horrible intruder, could hug her, she began to laugh, as the credits of I Love Lucy rolled.

Oh, poor Lucy.

Where's the part where she gets to be in the show?

It was one of my more ridiculous fear-filled nights. And I was, I think, 19. So it was a long time ago. Funny, though.

Thank god for cell phones! Nothing like that will ever happen again.

The police assured the still crying Lucy that no one suspicious was around, but that she did do the right thing in calling 911.

He spoke true.

I do have people that come and clean my house because if I didn't it would be a health hazzard. I like the big projects, but can't stand dishes, or doing the floors. DH does the dishes and the cleaning people do the floors. They annoy me putting everything in the wrong place. On the counter will be an empty knife block, all the knives in the drawer. A cabinet with all glass stuff and one with all plastic stuff, why is this not clear? Sigh. I just rearrange after I get home. Now I concentrate my effort on trying to keep stuff picked up somewhat. Often every surface is covered with paper, clothes, tools, etc. In a perfect world someone would follow me around and keep stuff organized the way I would if hours permitted.

I llike doing my own laundry. In fact, I must go do some now.

I love having a clean bathroom and kitchen, and I mean clean clean. As in, bleaching the surfaces every second day. But I can happily let plates sit in my bedroom in piles until they get moldy, and newspapers and take away cartons pile up in the sitting room. I'm a conundrum.

Just talked to mom. She's had a baster emergency (dad melted it. Bad dad! No cookie!)

Is anyone else's brain going to a bad place? No? Just the dyke then, yep...(No, Cindy and ita went there too! I feel so relieved)

AIMEE! GO TO THE DOCTOR! Maybe even if the asshat gyn won't see you, there's a nurse practitioner in the practice who would? Or if you call back and explain that "Jackhole, I don't HAVE another PCP, and the wait will be at least X weeks before I can get an appointment, and I've had a kidney infection before, so don't make me SUE YOUR ASS". LAME, is what I call that.

Hmm. Apparently I need Jars to clean my kitchen and bathroom, while I keep the bedroom and living room fine--the only reason my bedroom gets messy is the pile of laundry, the pile of CLEAN laundry, and occasionally the books spilling off the bookshelf. Of course, it helps that my apartment is tiny, so food in teh living room is practically in teh kitchen anyway. So keeping dishes and trash in the proper places is not hard.

Dear Jars: I will wash your dishes if you will clean my bathroom. Anybody who brings me a load of groceries so I don't have to go to the store myself? I kiss them!

And with that, dear Bitches, good night!