Lifetime Television's "Craigslist Killer"

That was based on a true story.  So is this:

As I have blogged, we are selling various things on Craigslist at the moment.  Or, at least we are trying to sell them, but mostly we are just answering various detailed questions about the things, negotiating prices on the things, making appointments to show the things, and waiting for people-who-never-show-up to show up to supposedly buy the said things.  Noooo...I'm not bitter.  At all.

Anwwho, when people do arrive to buy things, it is actually kind of scary.  Here you have gone and given a complete stranger your phone number and address and essentially invited them in to case your house and get familiar with your family...  So that they can later come back and rob/kidnap/murder you in your sleep.  (We watched the Lifetime TV for women's dramatization of a true story, "Craigslist Killer," which I do not advise, if you ever plan on utilizing Craigslist.)

Since posting our junk on Craigslist, we have all been a little on edge about our personal security.  Code Red.  It reminds me totally of a time a long while ago, when I was taking a bath when Greg came home from work.  I had the bathroom door mostly closed and the lights were turned off.  I was just soaking silently in the tub.  Me time.

I heard him come in the door, but I figured he would figure out where I was...so, I said nothing.  Remember?  It was "me time."  I heard him walking all around the house.  I heard him opening closets.  I heard him go outside.  I heard him go into the basement.  I thought little of it because (a) he is generally a very strange man so nothing really seems out-of-the-ordinary about a teensie episode of erratic behavior, and (b) it was ME TIME! and as long as he wasn't in that bathroom, I was happy.

After a good 15 or 20 minutes, the bathroom door slllloooowwwwwlllyyyy creaked open, inch-by-inch.  I opened my eyes to see what was going on.  The business end of a tennis racket was stealthily pushing the door ajar.  What??

Greg was prowling the house (armed with sports equipment).

Greg (with relief): "I saw your car in the garage, so I knew you were home...But you weren't anywhere, so I assumed that someone was holding you hostage, and I was looking for them."

With a tennis racket.

Me:  "Why didn't you just call my name?  And, seriously, a tennis racket?"

Greg:  "We need to get a gun."

Me:  "Oh, no...we don't."

Can you imagine?