Sunday, September 25, 2011
One of the realities of living in Hollywood (especially when you're up the hill from the 101 freeway) is that you will routinely be woken up by the sound of helicopters. Or as some refer to them, "ghetto birds." They hover over your house, breaking the silence of your slumber with their rhythmic whirs. And they don't go away for what feels like an eternity.
Earlier this week, I was peacefully sawing z's when that familiar rhythm interrupted my sleep. Not one but two—maybe even three helicopters were overhead. I started to wonder if maybe there was a bad guy on the loose. And then I heard something loud coming from the very near vicinity of our house.
It sounded like metal banging. It sounded like someone was breaking into our sliding glass door. In fact, I was positive that's what was happening. The choppers were after an escaped con and he was now trying to take cover in our dining room.
I reached over and grabbed Mr. Wonderful with both hands, "There's a loud noise!" I whisper-shrieked.
He flew out of bed and immediately went for the bedroom door.
"Don't go OUT THERE!" I panicked.
But he didn't listen.
I prepared myself for the sight of him being hit with the butt of a pistol.
He took a step out the door, paused to listen, then turned back.
"It's the trash truck."
He has since instituted a new rule in our marriage. I am never allowed to put two hands on him to wake him up from a dead sleep. Giving him a heart attack over the morning trash pickup was apparently not an okay thing to do...