Heist

Being the wonderful girlfriend that I am, I offered to help Rick get started packing his stuff to move to CO while he was away. Knowing his parents go to church every Sunday and then to visit his grandma, I asked his mom to leave me a key, which she said wouldn't be a problem. What was intended to be a nice and simple gesture turned out to be a criminal act.

I arrived at Rick's around 11am this past Sunday and let myself in the house using the key that was left for me. I locked the door behind me and carried my empty boxes and purse up to his 3rd story bedroom. I went back down to let his brother's dog out of the crate (his parents were watching her while he was on vacation) and take her outside. I opened the front door, Shea (the dog) ran out and I closed the front door behind me---leaving the key on the table inside and letting the door lock behind me! What was I going to do? I'll tell you.

I went around the house checking every window to see if any were unlocked and/or accessible from the outside. No such luck. I checked the small basement windows hoping to shimmy through and even used the pliers from my tackle box to try and pry the window open. No go. Checked all the outside doors. Locked. Then I remembered - the garage door opener keypad. I've entered the code int he past a couple of times so I thought maybe I can try and remember. As I approach the garage door I notice the keypad is gone! His parents are painting all the trim on the house and removed it to paint.

I didn't know what to do. I have no way in, a dog who is running around the yard like crazy, and no phone (my purse is in the house) to try and call my parents to come get me (and this dog). There were no signs that the neighbors were home and I couldn't walk down the street with a dog on no leash to use someone else's phone.

So I stood in front of the double garage doors with my hands on my hips and just looked up to the heavens trying to think of what to do. And then I saw it - the window above the garage where there is storage space was cracked open about an inch or two. I had to figure out how to get in the one and only window that was unlocked.

I put Shea in my car and closed the door so she couldn't run around and I searched the yard for a way to get up there. Lucky for me they were in the middle of painting trim and there was a ladder behind some bushes on the side of the house. I leaned the ladder up against the house and it barely reached the windowsill. I proceeded to climb up this ladder in my gray cotton gauchos, a hot pink tank top, and flip flops.

The ladder started to shake as I got towards the last couple of rungs and I reached for the windowsill. I just made it. I had visions of the ladder falling and me hanging on for dear life from the windowsill. Thankfully, that did not happen. I reached the window, pushed it open and climbed into the attic-space dripping with sweat. Thank goodness they are very organized people and there was room to move around up there (unlike my attic which is packed with so much stuff you can't move anywhere). I made my way to the wooden folding stairs and carefully pushed them down into the garage. I climbed down the steps and easily let myself into the kitchen through the door all the while glad that neighbors didn't see and call the cops (not that any robber in their right mind would climb a ladder in flip flops!)

The whole time I felt as if I was in some action/comedy show or movie. I'm a good girl, but that was my small bit of off-the-record criminal activity.

What a "shocker!"

Most guys nowadays are obsessed with "the shocker," my brother included. If you don't know what that is, please look it up at http://www.urbandictionary.com/.

Joe and some of his buddies have a hand sticker on the back of their cars making this lovely gesture. On my way home from work a couple of weeks ago, I called home to see what was for dinner. After discussing our dinner options, mom asked if I knew what that hand sticker is on the back of Joe's car. My response was to ask Joe. She told me she did and he wouldn't tell her.

I went back and forth with her b/c I didn't want to tell her either. Its not something you jsut come out to tell your mother and I didn't know how to explain this over the phone without saying "2 in the p**k, 1 in the st**k."

I finally gave in and talked her through making the gesture with her own hands and explaining what was done with the "2" and what was done with the "1." There was a slight pause and I said, "get it?"

She got it alright and then informed me that my brother's friend put one of these stickers on the back of his mother's car and she didn't know what it was or even that it was there!

Never take your mother to the bar....

So to start off my blogging, I thought this would be the perfect story. This happened quite a few months ago, but I was told this is worth blogging about.

My brother and I were headed out to a casual night at the bar with some friends and our mom initially joking around decided she wanted to join us. I didn't really think it would be that big of a deal and actually thought it would be a good time. Get 2 glasses of wine in her and she's a riot! This envoked mybrother's girlfriend to invite her parents and we were all looking forward to a good night out.

So skipping ahead - PAST the 2 glasses of wine - my mother is singing, hugging people, and almost climbed on the bar to dance with the band's lead guitar player. "Embarassing" doesn't even sum it up. She was WAY past her limit.

Here we are outside on the sidewalk waiting for her to finish a cigarette and she falls on her caboose on the wet, rainy sidwalk. I was done. My boyfriend Rick had to help her to the car. She passed out immediately------or so I thought.

I feel the cold, damp air from an open windo in the back and instantly smelled something terrible. Rather than asking to pull over, mom had decided to roll down the window and toss her cookies from the moving car. For those of you who ever find the need to do this, here is my one word of advice: DON'T.

The puke did not go out the window, but rather came back inside due to the wind. It was outside the car, inside the backseat, on the ceiling, in the way back (trunk) and even somehow got around the car on the outside of the back door! I had all to do not to blow it myself.

I got her home and, with the assistance of my brother and my dad, undressed her to her "unmentionables" (I won't mention what Joe and I had to see in the process). Dad cleaned out her vomit-soaked hair and put her to bed to await the hangover that would be there to greet her int he morning. My wonderful bf cleaned out as much of the "stuff" from my car including the door's side pockets where it had pooled. If I had done it, I would have just made more of a mess.

Mom did pay to have the inside of my car cleaned and detailed but I leave you with this helpful advise:

Never take your mother to the bar.