So most people know that if they ever want to set fire to something, I am not the person they should call on for help, because I suck at starting things on fire. Seriously. I can’t even get a cigarette lighter lit. Nor can I set fire to a fire-starter log, which is made out of extremely flammable material. So everyone pretty much knows that.
But if you ever want to rob a house, yeah… don’t call me to help you, because I will find the one thing to knock over, and it will make the loudest noise you could possibly make in the middle of the night.
Oh, and I will also run into closed doors.
My mom has my brother’s round stand-up heater in the kitchen, because it has been freezing cold lately and… she doesn’t like cooking in the cold. This heater is about ten inches in diameter, and about two feet high. It’s placed quite conveniently in front of cupboards that house our coffee and tea, to the right of the stove, and sort of on the path towards the door that goes down into the basement. Not really in the way. But enough.
So at about midnight (ten minutes ago), I got the urge to eat something. As I live downstairs, I have to go through a sliding door, which isn’t so quiet, and up some squeaky old wooden stairs and through the door into the kitchen. I manage to semi-silently make it to the top of the stairs without waking ANYONE, and yes… I was feeling very successful that I didn’t trip and plant my face on the landing of the stairs.
Anyway, so I’m coming through the stairs door, and being all sneaky and quiet and everything, and the only thing on my mind is… FOOD. I’m going slow, though, because my dad has hypersensitive hearing, and I’m pretty sure that the sound of a cotton ball dropping on carpet would be loud enough to rouse him. So, making sure that I don’t slam the old, likes-to-slam kitchen door, I am going on my merry little way in the very dark but familiar kitchen when WHAM! My leg runs straight into my brother’s heater and it falls over with a bang, hitting the stove as it goes.
Now, you know… my first thought is, of course “oh crap! I’m gonna wake up dad.” because… well… daddies don’t like being woken up at midnight. So I figure maybe I oughta go to the bathroom first, so he’ll know that it’s me and he won’t get worried that there’s a burglar in the house.
I set the heater upright again, cringing very profusely, and close the kitchen door VERY quietly behind me, still in the pitch black, kind of using the wall as my guide to reach the bathroom. I’ve come this way many times, and never actually tripped over anything, even when it was full of boxes. So I’m feeling past all danger, because I can hear my dad snoring, and I figure everything is okay and I’m clear to snag some snacks and go back downstairs.
Only… I go to push the usually cracked-open bathroom door open, and smack straight into it because someone actually closed it all the way. Cue another obnoxiously loud bang.
And a very, very exasperated sigh.
I am not, never have been, and never will be a sneaky person at night.