Not that I didn’t party in plenty of semi-completed houses when I was a teenager… But WHAT THE fudge! I sent M over to measure some windows for me tonight. He pulled up into the pitch-black driveway of the new house to find the sliding glass door partly open. Upon inspection, he discovered a teenage couple cowering in MY BABY’S BEDROOM, the fudgeERS. They professed that Everyone’s Good Friend Carl (you might remember him as the kid who serendipitously acquired my best friend’s cell phone after it was stolen from her car, and then used it to call MY BROTHER.) has suggested that they crash at our house, because homeless teenagers got no place to stay. And our house is empty, right? What’s the harm? What’s the big? It’s not like we were home invaded or anything. Never mind the rooms filled with tools and virgin painted walls and un-flooded floors and etc etc etc. Dude. if I can’t sleep in my new house? NO ONE CAN.
Oh god, oh god, oh god. We’re leaving this house, which is not-yet even MORTGAGED, unoccupied for two weeks at the end of this month while we take a trip out of town. PANIC ATTACK, ENGAGE.
The incident ended with minimal drama because I was not there. My husband graciously allowed them to use his phone to make some calls. They got a ride and god help them, they’d better be sleeping someplace else tonight. It’s a helluva climb up to the second floor windows, and haha! We locked them.
Tomorrow: alarm system phone calls! Flood lights! Frantic searching for a house sitter! Wait. Isn’t this the reason we left L.A.?