This is the post Scott told me I couldn’t post when I wanted to post it.
Our conversation back in June:
Scott: You can’t write on your blog when we’ll be out of town. We could get robbed.
Me: But that’s the whole point of the post. What would they take? We have nothing.
Scott: Post it to your private social media accounts.
Me: Huh? What is a private social media account? It’s a public blog.
Scott: I will divorce you if you post this post tomorrow. Post your robber post after we get back.
We’re back! We are ready to fight off intruders with barking dogs, screams and Scott scrambling to get his AR out of the locked safe in the basement.
Scott and the grandparents of Facebook are right – posting on social media when you are out of town will make it easier for intruders to enter your home without getting caught.
But do the intruders know what to expect?
Scott and I are out of town fishing again. You know this because I posted a picture of myself holding a fish that you will not find in Kansas. I hope you are smart enough to realize we spend all of our money on plane tickets.
I let our neighbors know when we’re out of town. You’re being watched.
Whoops! Did you get dog poop on your shoe while crossing our yard? I meant to pick that up before we left.
Our neighbors are laughing at you from their windows.
I’m giving you a warning because I don’t want to see anyone die, even lowlifes like yourself -
Congratulations! You got in! The security alarm is going off. Better go fast. What’s first on your list? Small electronic devices with an apple logo on them? Nope, we have all of those with us. They’re entertaining our kids so Scott and I don’t have to.
We also have our iPhones, laptops, cameras and Go Pros. That fish won’t appear on social media by itself.
What else is a hot item? Jewelry to pawn? Master bathroom. I have a small collection of Charming Charlie’s jewelry from the clearance rack. I love a good deal. The only piece of jewelry of any value is on my finger. And I hope it’s not attracting barracudas while I float in the ocean with a beer in hand.
You’re kinda like a barracuda yourself. I catch barracudas, chop them up and use them as bait when I fish.
Scott did lose his wedding ring. If you can find that, it’s all yours, man. We spent weeks looking for it. It’s already gone in our minds. Can you leave me a note on where you found it? I would be curious.
What’s next? Master closet. Look around - I am missing the female gene. I don’t have a shoe fetish. I don’t even like to shop. I believe money should be spent at Target and vacations. My shelves are filled with workout clothes because I don’t believe in working out on vacation either.
You can browse Scott’s designer suits and shirts. He dresses well. But you will have to move his tick-infested, poison-ivy-covered hunt clothes to get to them. I gave up on trying to organize his side of the closet years ago. I break out in a rash. You never know what will appear on Scott’s side of the closet.
Hey! Get out of the bedside drawer, you perv! Everyone knows that’s off limits.
Ok, I’m just going to say it out loud - WHAT is that smell? It’s worse than dog poop. Oh, those kids. One of them forgot to flush the toilet before we left. Scott will be cleaning that when we get back because the kids get their absentmindedness from him.
Kid room. Nothing.
Another kid room. Nothing.
Is the alarm annoying you yet?
Guest room. No, not a guest room. It’s a play room. A play room where a bomb exploded pink glitter and naked barbies. The girls left tacks and staples on the floor to keep me from entering and throwing out old toys because they’re geniuses. You probably won’t notice the tacks because you are wearing shoes. Shoes with dog poop still caked to the bottom. Please – take the toys. Take it all.
Now what? Art on the walls? Decorative pieces in the house? Nope. I told you – I am missing the female gene. The house isn’t even clean because I spent my time typing this letter to you.
That alarm must be warping your brain. The cops are on their way. The neighbors have rolled out their lawn chairs and a bowl of popcorn. They hear sirens. It’s about to get good in the ‘hood.
Run to the basement! Ah, the final resting place for Scott’s trophy mounts. The deer are staring at you. The alligator head is a warning. The sailfish cries tears of saltwater. There’s a bobcat on the wall. A wildcat. Scott is a K-State Wildcat alum. A Wildcat shot a wildcat. Get out. Get out, now. You can’t get to the guns. They are locked up. Only Scott knows the code. You don’t want this man mad at you.
That large TV in the corner looks nice. It’s a tube, dude. They still make those. We won’t give it up until it blows up.
Make your way to the bar. Do you want to take some beer to your lowlife friends? You better grab a frosty mug because the only beer we have is on tap.
Don’t touch the whiskey. You don’t want this woman mad at you either. You’ve already tracked dog poop all over my house and I’m annoyed at the fact that I’ll have to scrub like Cinderella when I get home.
Here come the cops.
Wave to the neighbors.
Don’t forget your bag of toys.
Are you concerned when people post they are out of town on social media? What precautions do you take before you leave your house? Are you missing the female gene too? Does your husband wear speedos?