Well, Gentle Reader, that sucked.

I had high hopes for my description of Friday night, which featured a nice, long walk, neon signs, unexpected vintage kitsch, and a litter of Himalayan kittens. All of the above were part of said walk.

Alas, I'm relating my latest police report.

2:30 in the morning found B and I hanging out on the couch, chatting and watching Anthony Bordain over a bottle of rioja. You can imagine how surprised we were when an urgent pounding rattled our front door. Someone was banging his or her fists to a pulp, it seemed.

My eyes met B's. While we were both alarmed, we both tacitly assumed that it was a drunken friend who had lost track of time. But then we heard a yell that we didn't recognize and realized that there was a stranger attacking our welcome mat.

Have you seen The Strangers? It's that newish movie where Liv Tyler and Scott Speedman are terrorized in their home (seemingly without reason) before they're slain in a cringe-worthy gorefest. The psychological tampering begins with the kind of knocking that shook our threshold.

Granted, we weren't expecting three people in masks to merrily disembowel us, but nothing good comes of visitors at 2:30 in the morning.

"Get into my bedroom," B whispered, referring to the central room in the house. He dove into the linen closet, grasping his tool box and extracting his rubber mallet.

I followed close behind B. It's a nice thought to hide in this situation, but I was furious. Besides, who on earth lets a friend walk into that sort of thing without some support? He tried to shoo me back. I staunchly refused to shoo.

B shot me an exasperated glance and flung open the door, hammer in hand. We were greeted by a completely wasted 20-something man with shaggy hair, wailing into his cell phone as he paced back and forth on our porch.

"I love you," he said wetly into the phone.

"What the hell is going on?" B asked, as confused as me. I hovered behind him.

"Sorry," said a fragile voice. Looking down, we noticed a short woman with a pixie cut spread across our front steps. "He's drunk. He thinks he's somewhere else." Her tone didn't exactly inspire confidence in her sobriety, either.

The man staggered on, slurring sweet nothings into his Nokia. He had taken no notice of us once we opened the door.

"You're going to take care of this," said B. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, sorry."

"This isn't going to happen again." Once more, not a question. "You're not going to be banging on my door again, correct?"

"Yeah."

We shut and locked the door. We had a few peaceful moments before the pounding started again, even louder and more insistent. This was too much. B flung open the door, still gripping the rubber mallet.

"That's it! Get the fuck out!" B boomed.

I watched in horror as the deranged Romeo forced his way into the apartment. He spilled into our foyer, half striding purposefully, half staggering. He dove in, seeking something only he knew. I'm guessing it was the the heinie of his beloved (you know, the lady to whom he so suavely and droolingly crooned earlier). I half wish it was a bar of soap. I would have understood. The guy looked greasy.

B may not be the tallest person I know, but his previous work as a bouncer must have been helpful.

Though the idiot was easily six feet tall, B immediately put his hands on the guy's shoulders and did his best to eject him. Amazingly, boy wonder began to push back, struggling to force B to the side.

B grappled with the idiot trying to enter. Then B saw yours truly advancing and looking pissed, and yelled. I was honestly (and stupidly) about to dig my unmanicured nails into the asshat's neck.

Go away, Gwen!" B hollered. Reality smacked me across the face, and I backed up. I'm not good with this. I always think I'm bigger than I am.

B threw his fists at the intruder, eventually tossing him out the door. He slammed it shut, fighting for breath.

He leaned against the wooden frame and shot me an indescribable glance. I was on the verge of completely flipping out. I was either going to cry, hit someone in the head with a rock, or curl up in the fetal position.

A house is supposed to be a place of safety. Some stupid person violated that.

I'd like to point out that I was fairly useless, here. B did everything. I've always respected him, but that night he was like, Super B. Good job, B.

We both agreed to call the cops (who were two minutes away) and have them check out the neighborhood (and hopefully arrest this freak). And while the cops were two minutes away, it took them almost 15 to drive by. At this point, other neighbors had come out, because it seemed that Home Invader's girlfriend was screaming. Even an exhausted B and I poked our heads out the door again. She was really screaming. It sounded painful.

I wandered into the street (in my pajamas and flip flops) to flag down the cops. B urged me back inside.

"What if they come back? Get back here," he insisted.

"I don't want the cops to miss our house!"

"You are not being smart here, Gwen!"

"I know."

"Gaaah," he sighed, joining me. Time meandered on. Still, no cops. It shouldn't have taken as long as it had, so B called 911 again.

"They'll be there soon," assured the operator. "It's a busy night."

On most days when I've gotten the occasional ticket, the cops have always seemed very attentive; very thorough as they issued my fine. This night, they didn't bother to get out of their wagon as the terrified duo in their jammies (Anthony Bourdain is best enjoyed in pj's) attempted to relay the night's events and the fact that there might be some woman getting beaten in the street.

My voice was still trailing off as Driver Cop drove away. Our tale had proven about as compelling as learning the Dewey Decimal System. They didn't even take a report.

It pretty much ends here. B and I were up well into morning, still nervous that our breaking-and-entering friends might return for round three.

The rest of the weekend was fairly uneventful. Well, that's until I got water poisoning, but that's a tale for another day.