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snarpI came back from a walk a few hours ago, just as it was starting to get dark. As I was getting close to the house, a passing car slowed nearly to a stop for no apparent reason. There was no one else on the street, and it didn't stop anywhere - it just sat there until I got into the yard and half-way up to the front step, then sped up again and left. Telling myself I was being paranoid, I tried to see the license plate number, but it was already too far away. The car was an old sedan with tinted windows, of the sort maidens are oft murdered in, in these degenerate days.
(Standards have fallen immensely! In the old days we killed our maidens on silk sheets in a canopy bed prepared for her wedding night, under a plum tree blooming at the edge of her family graveyard, which had become infested with fox demons, or in Spain*.)
I unlocked the door, went in, took off my shoes, and took my key downstairs to put it in my purse so I wouldn't leave without it. I got myself a glass of water before discovering that I'd made tea just before leaving (that I did this is a measure of my powers of concentration recently). I microwaved it and took both the teacup and the water glass into the living room with me, one in each hand. I sat down. Before I could put them down on the table, I heard what sounded like the back door slamming very loudly.
I sat there with the cups in my hands for a few seconds trying to convince myself that it was from next door. Unfortunately, I could only convince myself that it was possible it was from next door - it's very windy tonight, but I've been in this house in storms before, and I've never heard anything this loud before unless somebody had actually opened the back door.
The living room is near the front door, and my room, where I'd put my key, is near the back door. I got up, still holding both cups, and walked over to the table where the dish with the spare key sits - the dish was there, but the key wasn't.
After standing there ruminating over my unlikely presence in a horror movie or paranormal romance for a moment - I mean, I've lost a little weight? But not that much. Also, my lower back remains free of tattoos with ambiguous occult significance. - I put the cups down on the table, unlocked the front door, realized I'd taken my phone out of my pocket, and nearly panicked until I remembered putting it down on the living room table. I got it and, apparently feeling I'd wasted too much time with that, went outside without without putting my shoes on, unless I'd just forgotten I'd left them by the door. I walked around back to see if either of the doors or the gate was open.
For whatever reason, if one of them had been, I think my personal threshold of risk would not have been met - I probably would have decided the wind had blown it open, and searched the house myself. They were all closed, though, and for whatever reason that option struck me as the more disturbing one. So at that point, I got the phone out and called 911. They said they'd send someone, but it might be a while - so I hung up not entirely sure what happened next in the Threatened Woman process. Usually either I would already be dead or engaged in combat, depending upon the genre; a cat would have revealed itself as the source of my startlement, as a prelude to the true attack; or I would be exploring unwisely.
Obviously, though, in real life, when you have taken the step of calling 911, you have made the decision that you're not going back in the house. However, you will note that I made no mention earlier of putting on my coat, that the weather was bad, and that I was still barefoot.
At precisely that moment, what I assume to be the Reward For Good Decisions side of the Threatened Woman Story interceded, and the woman from across the street, who I've talked to once or twice, pulled in and asked me if there was any particular reason I was standing out in the driveway looking confused about my place in the world. She let me wait in her house until the police showed up, and loaned me some fuzzy socks and sandals.
Two police officers came, searched the house, and found no one, but said that one of the back doors had been ajar a little. (I hadn't checked to see if they were locked, just whether they were open or closed.) Probably it had been somehow been unlocked and the wind got it. I put my shoes on, brought the socks and sandles back to the neighbor, got her phone number, and went around the house myself to turn on all the lights and reassure myself everything was fine. My tea had gotten cold again, but I drank it anyway, by this time having no energy left to apply to the microwave.
It strikes me that I don't think I actually know of anyone who's ever told me they've been harassed by someone who began by slowing the car down, looking at them for a second, and then driving away without ever cracking the window or honking or anything. I don't think I know of anyone who's been the target of break-in by a stranger, either - I mean, I know people who've been assaulted by strangers, and I know of people who've been threatened by a burglar, but I can't think of anyone who's been assaulted by a stranger who came into the house specifically for that purpose. I assume that these patterns of behavior are pretty uncommon in the real world. But because they're such common elements in stories we see on TV and read about in books, neither I, the 911 operator, the neighbor, nor either of the police officers questioned why I was worried about this. The operator, when I mentioned the car slowing down, asked me immediately if I'd written down the tags.
(Well, I mean - being me, I was psychoanalyzing myself about it the whole time, and I'm sure the officers didn't want to tell someone "don't be so paranoid next time." I assume that competent law enforcement officers develop detailed taxonomies of paranoids, and say that straight-out only to certain species described therein.)
I don't mean that I think was a wrong to call - I made it clear to the operator that I'd already gotten out of the house and hadn't actually seen anybody, and they knew what the weather was like, so I've got to assume that they prioritized accordingly. I mean, I'm in a ridiculous upper-class neighborhood, so I don't doubt that I got an unusually quick response. But I'm not sure what I could do to balance out those sorts of internal issues in the process of calling 911. Faked a Spanish accent or pretended to be a guy? Both problematic in their own unique ways!
I record this here because - to give you an idea of how spoiled I am - ending up in this particular part of the The Horrors Of Being Female story was a totally new experience for me. To make it all the weaker of an anecdote, if the stereotypical Jerk Guy were to ask me, "So had you been listening to stories about burglars or something?" or "Were you starting your period?" I would be forced to say "yes" and "probably, but I might not know for a few more hours."
-
* I've been reading Kaoru Mori's blog. She feels that the rest of Europe used to have funny ideas about Spain. Regarding the opera "Carmen": "when you watch this Opera, you get the idea that in the eyes of the rest of Europe at the time, Spain had a slightly exotic air to it - that it was a strange and mysterious country, is I think the feeling. That it wouldn't be at all surprising for a woman like Carmen to live there."
(Standards have fallen immensely! In the old days we killed our maidens on silk sheets in a canopy bed prepared for her wedding night, under a plum tree blooming at the edge of her family graveyard, which had become infested with fox demons, or in Spain*.)
I unlocked the door, went in, took off my shoes, and took my key downstairs to put it in my purse so I wouldn't leave without it. I got myself a glass of water before discovering that I'd made tea just before leaving (that I did this is a measure of my powers of concentration recently). I microwaved it and took both the teacup and the water glass into the living room with me, one in each hand. I sat down. Before I could put them down on the table, I heard what sounded like the back door slamming very loudly.
I sat there with the cups in my hands for a few seconds trying to convince myself that it was from next door. Unfortunately, I could only convince myself that it was possible it was from next door - it's very windy tonight, but I've been in this house in storms before, and I've never heard anything this loud before unless somebody had actually opened the back door.
The living room is near the front door, and my room, where I'd put my key, is near the back door. I got up, still holding both cups, and walked over to the table where the dish with the spare key sits - the dish was there, but the key wasn't.
After standing there ruminating over my unlikely presence in a horror movie or paranormal romance for a moment - I mean, I've lost a little weight? But not that much. Also, my lower back remains free of tattoos with ambiguous occult significance. - I put the cups down on the table, unlocked the front door, realized I'd taken my phone out of my pocket, and nearly panicked until I remembered putting it down on the living room table. I got it and, apparently feeling I'd wasted too much time with that, went outside without without putting my shoes on, unless I'd just forgotten I'd left them by the door. I walked around back to see if either of the doors or the gate was open.
For whatever reason, if one of them had been, I think my personal threshold of risk would not have been met - I probably would have decided the wind had blown it open, and searched the house myself. They were all closed, though, and for whatever reason that option struck me as the more disturbing one. So at that point, I got the phone out and called 911. They said they'd send someone, but it might be a while - so I hung up not entirely sure what happened next in the Threatened Woman process. Usually either I would already be dead or engaged in combat, depending upon the genre; a cat would have revealed itself as the source of my startlement, as a prelude to the true attack; or I would be exploring unwisely.
Obviously, though, in real life, when you have taken the step of calling 911, you have made the decision that you're not going back in the house. However, you will note that I made no mention earlier of putting on my coat, that the weather was bad, and that I was still barefoot.
At precisely that moment, what I assume to be the Reward For Good Decisions side of the Threatened Woman Story interceded, and the woman from across the street, who I've talked to once or twice, pulled in and asked me if there was any particular reason I was standing out in the driveway looking confused about my place in the world. She let me wait in her house until the police showed up, and loaned me some fuzzy socks and sandals.
Two police officers came, searched the house, and found no one, but said that one of the back doors had been ajar a little. (I hadn't checked to see if they were locked, just whether they were open or closed.) Probably it had been somehow been unlocked and the wind got it. I put my shoes on, brought the socks and sandles back to the neighbor, got her phone number, and went around the house myself to turn on all the lights and reassure myself everything was fine. My tea had gotten cold again, but I drank it anyway, by this time having no energy left to apply to the microwave.
It strikes me that I don't think I actually know of anyone who's ever told me they've been harassed by someone who began by slowing the car down, looking at them for a second, and then driving away without ever cracking the window or honking or anything. I don't think I know of anyone who's been the target of break-in by a stranger, either - I mean, I know people who've been assaulted by strangers, and I know of people who've been threatened by a burglar, but I can't think of anyone who's been assaulted by a stranger who came into the house specifically for that purpose. I assume that these patterns of behavior are pretty uncommon in the real world. But because they're such common elements in stories we see on TV and read about in books, neither I, the 911 operator, the neighbor, nor either of the police officers questioned why I was worried about this. The operator, when I mentioned the car slowing down, asked me immediately if I'd written down the tags.
(Well, I mean - being me, I was psychoanalyzing myself about it the whole time, and I'm sure the officers didn't want to tell someone "don't be so paranoid next time." I assume that competent law enforcement officers develop detailed taxonomies of paranoids, and say that straight-out only to certain species described therein.)
I don't mean that I think was a wrong to call - I made it clear to the operator that I'd already gotten out of the house and hadn't actually seen anybody, and they knew what the weather was like, so I've got to assume that they prioritized accordingly. I mean, I'm in a ridiculous upper-class neighborhood, so I don't doubt that I got an unusually quick response. But I'm not sure what I could do to balance out those sorts of internal issues in the process of calling 911. Faked a Spanish accent or pretended to be a guy? Both problematic in their own unique ways!
I record this here because - to give you an idea of how spoiled I am - ending up in this particular part of the The Horrors Of Being Female story was a totally new experience for me. To make it all the weaker of an anecdote, if the stereotypical Jerk Guy were to ask me, "So had you been listening to stories about burglars or something?" or "Were you starting your period?" I would be forced to say "yes" and "probably, but I might not know for a few more hours."
-
* I've been reading Kaoru Mori's blog. She feels that the rest of Europe used to have funny ideas about Spain. Regarding the opera "Carmen": "when you watch this Opera, you get the idea that in the eyes of the rest of Europe at the time, Spain had a slightly exotic air to it - that it was a strange and mysterious country, is I think the feeling. That it wouldn't be at all surprising for a woman like Carmen to live there."
