What was that I was saying the other day? Something about not having anything to write about? Uh... yeah. You'd think I'd learn my lesson about posting stuff like that. But noooo! I had to go and open that can of worms. Didn't I?
First, thanks to all of you who not only read my whining but actually left me comments and suggestions. You gave me the warm fuzzies because frankly I figured ya'll probaby gave up on me and got tired of coming over here to see nothing new. You like me! You really like me!!
Anyway, as my life goes, whenever I lay things out on the line, like saying there was nothing worth writing about, all sorts of things just start gelling. Take yesterday for example. During my lunch break not one but two blog worthy stories came up during conversations with co-workers. I was really excited to come home, get the normal shit of the day done, and plunk myself down in front of the computer to write. Except life had other plans for me. So these two stories and using some of the suggestions from my adoring fans will have to wait for another day. Today I tell you about my Friday night adventure at home.
It started off as a typical Friday evening - leave work, drive home through the massive downpour that decided to come down right in the middle of rush hour causing traffic to back up for miles in both directions of the Interstate, pick up the kiddo, hang with him for awhile, then yak on the phone with my girl Stace. Sounds boring enough, eh? Well don't run off yet. This is where it gets good. Or bad. It all depends on how you look at it.
If I'm not roaming around the house doing laundry or cleaning up the kitchen I'm usually pacing between the garage and the living room when I'm talking on the phone. I hang outside smoking then retreat to the quiet of the living room for awhile so I don't have to listen to the teevee and play noises. Anyway, last night I was sitting on the sofa in the living room. It runs the length of the long wall and faces the wall of the front door entry with the actual front door to the left. As we're yakking about whatever something caught my eye - the trim around the front door. From my position on the sofa something looked amiss. Like the trim, or the door, was warped or something. And no I wasn't drunk. I was only on my first beer.
I stood up and walked to the door for closer inspection and as I approached I realized that the entire door frame where the chain lock is attached and draped over to the front door was pulled out from the wall. WTF? Completely off the wall. So far off the wall that the tiny little nails used to hold it up had about a quarter inch between the ends of them and the backside of the trim. At this point I interrupt whatever Stace is saying and tell her what I'm looking at. It completely baffled me because 1) my parents were just here for a week so there was always someone around the house during the entire day and night and if they'd had any mishaps with the front door they not only would have told me, but would have made sure it was fixed better than it'd been before they left to go back home, 2) we rarely ever use the front door since I park the car in the garage and we just come in through the laundry room, and 3) with a dog like my Jake, someone would have to really want in bad to go through the trouble of trying to get past him.
With no damage to the door, inside or out, and the door being double locked (deadbolt and all), and the chain still attached to both the trim and the door, it was baffling. Besides me, there are only three others who have a key to the house - my parents (previously exhonerated), my neighbor who was watching my kiddo all week before and after summer camp, and my ex (long story why, and not something I'll discuss here). So I asked WJ if they (him, the neighbor, the neighbor's kids, or any or all of the above) had tried to get into the house at all during the day while I was at work. Nope. Wasn't them. So that left only two other options. The ex, or someone who somehow got a key to my house or knows how to pick a lock AND relock the door when they're done.
At this point Stace suggests that I call the police. I debated on this one for two reasons. First, I hate calling the police because you always have to call the 911 number and then explain that's it's not "really" an emergency as emergencies are classified but that you really do need to talk to someone or you wouldn't have called them in the first place. I wish they had a non-emergency number for situations like this. And second, I'd already been home for like 2 hours when I'd discovered this and being that I was fine, WJ was fine, and nothing seemed to be missing from the house it seemed a little strange to get the police involved. Despite my reservations I called them. And you know what? They showed up maybe 5 minutes later. Impressive.
So now that this post has gotten way longer than I ever intended it to be, here's how the rest of it played out. The officer listened to my story, took pics, and said he was going to call my ex to see if he'd tried to get into the house for some reason. If he had, I was told I should explain the "rules" to him about entering the house univited, and if that didn't work, I should file a restraining order. Uh, yeah! If he says he didn't, it was suggested I have the locks changed and I would be assigned a case number as a victim of potential break-in.
Can you guess what happened? Here, let me give you a hint. Sometime between the two birthday parties we have to go to this weekend and all the usual laundry, house cleaning, etc. that is always on the schedule, I now have to either go to one of the big box home improvement stores to buy new locks and try to figure out how in the hell to install them, or I'll be calling a locksmith.
This really wasn't the sort of interesting blog worthy writing I was looking for, but hey. Whatever works, eh?