It doesn’t take a highly observant person to realize that home invasions have definitely been on the rise in this depressed economy. People are becoming more brazen and creative, exploring new levels of deception to reel trusting people into danger. Not too long ago I read a story where 3 armed men employed a 12-year-old boy in their scheme. They had the boy knock on the door in the middle of the night and start in with a story meant to evoke compassion and disarm mistrust. Then the 3 men stormed from around the corner, hurt the home owners, and fled with their valuables.
While gun debate is on the rise, so also are gun sales. People are equipping and preparing themselves for the growing reality that they very well could be the next target or the next news story. I have noticed that people are fighting back more too. News stories are cropping up from all across the U.S. that inform applauding viewers such as myself of heroic homeowners of all ages using weapons and physical contact to fight off thieves and burglars.
In addition, it is probably safe to bet on the prospect of a marked increase in the purchase of larger, more aggressive dogs. Most people would rather have a dog jump in for the attack than to suddenly find their heart in their throat, their limbs paralyzed, and all mental preparation for “what if this ever happened to me” having gone out the broken window.
Sounds good, but, I don’t have a dog. I just have two cats. They have keen hearing, but no bark to warn me. And skittish Toby, who has yet to come out of the bedroom this entire month post-moving in, would probably serve only to give me my first battle wounds by suddenly dashing off of my sleeping body. So there I would be after hopping out of bed, startled by claw marks and suspicious noises in the outer rooms. I would have no dog, no gun, no knife, no bat. Just me, a roommate, and 2 cats.
What would I do if my home were broken into?
Prior to 5 days ago, I’d probably lock my bedroom door and dial 911, only venturing out if I heard something bad happening to my roommate, who hopefully would have her own door locked. What is this 5 day mystery solution, this alternative that now rests in the palm of my hands, ready to be employed should a home invasion happen in my happy little relatively secure part of town? What could possibly take me from being a fearful door locking, police calling, heart thumping, pants clumping (ewww…but, hey, it happens) woman to a next-day heroine on the local and state TV channels plus the worldwide internet?
Why, it is hormones my friends. Sheer and pure female hormones stuffed into tiny yellow pills meant to stop the forces of nature. No I am not a Tom Catalina, prowling for my next conquest while gloating in the freedom of no morning sickness and no basketball belly. I have had to very unfortunately return to the use of birth control for the regulation of my body’s cycles. Bear with me dear male readers, for your sisters, friends, mothers, and the like may be sufferers as well. Perhaps by the end of this, you will either shun all women on birth control or find a tender spot of warming compassion for the challenges they endure.
In the realm of irregular menstrual cycles, treated by scads of pills packed with various levels and combinations of female hormones, some women get no period at all, and some women constantly have a period. I am the latter. I was there once before, but after years decided to take myself off of birth control before I offed myself or worse. Yes, they are little devil pills. Now I must make a pact with the “devil” once again so that I do not become anemic from daily loss of blood. So, this is my option: bleed every day, or be a bitch every day.
So today is my 5th day on the pill, and while mostly ending the problem, an entirely new set of problems have arisen, namely my inner response to every little problem that flits through the day, harmless as butterflies, but so annoying to me I squash them with bare hands and laugh manically as I paint the walls with their fragile little wings. Die you stupid problems, die!
Oh, that’s just the start. I absolutely and truthfully, physically feel rage in my veins. It is so awful. I know it sounds weird, but yes, anger and rage physically assault my arms like electrical impulses trying to break the barrier of my skin. And it happens out of the blue, with no real precursor, no prelude, no warning, no reason. Just suddenly in my chair at work I … am … ANGRY. I could roar, growl, and froth like a beast, spinning in circles like the Tasmanian Devil. I feel physically and emotionally like the Hulk on steroids (yeah, intense). I would make the mentally challenged homeless people walking downtown, shouting obscenities to the sky, look like soft furry kittens you want to take home and cuddle.
Did I say birth control is awful? Worse. I don’t think there are female hormones in birth control at all. I should be a sappy, weeping mess on the floor, not Goliath or Samson snapping the door like a twig. I think there are FDA unapproved, titanic levels of synthetic, toxic testosterone created in some modern-day Victor Frankenstein lab abiding in those little pills. They make me feel so vicious that in the event of a home invasion, I wouldn’t have the chance to see if I had the strength of ten men in me. In that 1 minute of pre-attack rage in a face off with a burglar or a pack of them, here is what would precisely take place:
I would take a deep breath and bellow it out as I leaped from my bedroom. A small woman by no means, I would become airborne and land like Bowser from Mario Galaxy sending shock waves across the floor, rippling towards my unsuspecting intruders. The burglars would instantly start mewling like wee little lads with wee little pee puddles gathered at their feet. I’d smack my hands on my chest to pump myself up, then smack them on my knees and assume Sumo position, locking eyes with foolish guys in search of a few hundred bucks or electronics.
Snarling, drooling, heaving, howling, I’d grow ten feet tall with nine-inch nails, blood-shot eyes and fangs. I’d be popping buttons, splitting cloth, growing hair, and shaking with a feverish delight, a predatory hunger, a thirst for the blood of the quivering pea-bodies who have long since dropped their guns, sharted their britches, and called out for mommy and God repeatedly in no specific order.
I’ll spare you the gruesome details that would ensue. I know you get the gist of what I’m going through now. I don’t suppose every day will be like this, but I do know from past times on birth control that there seem to be more days like this than not. Yes, the weepy, mopey days will be there as well, perhaps to release some of the pressure of the surging, roiling volcanic wrath just beneath the surface of my normally loving and peaceable heart.
I may have to wrestle against being a beast on wheels in the daily grind, but you better believe I’ve got your back in the event of an attack. Yes sir, if you want to beef yourself up and be prepared for attack on your person or home, why never mind weapons or pit bulls or silly alarms. They are small in comparison to the little yellow pill. Put yourself or a loved one on birth control and one confrontation will win you and your household a lifetime of reverence and fearful respect of criminals worldwide. They will know not to touch the home of a BC woman. Why? Because she will flat-out take you out with a hit so hard you’ll be a regressed vegetable drooling the days away, pointing in gurgling delight at the tweety birds circling your mushy brain.
Fear the BC folks, and stay off of it if you can! It makes mama kitties bring out the claws 😉