It's 4:45 pm on Monday, and there's something big moving furniture upstairs and I'm too chicken to go up there to see what is. (Maybe it's a chicken.) At first I thought there was something in the attic and thought if I ignored it, it would go away. Or die. Than I thought something was scampering across the roof and would soon get tired or fall off. Or die. Then the sucker actually moved a chair across the floor upstairs and THAT's when I realized I wasn't in Kansas anymore.
So I did what any calm, right-thinking American woman would do. I called my husband and told him to come home and maybe stop and pick up a priest.
Now it's 4:51. I'm still alive.
And it is, too.