We have a dog, too, a Big Old Mean Dog, so we don’t worry too much about locking the doors. If she doesn’t know you, and we’re not there (or sometimes even if we are), you are not coming in her house.
For example, my sister, the dog’s owner, was in the back yard last night and pushed open one of the windows to ask me something. Tammy, the dog, jumped up and started barking and growling. If my sister hadn’t spoken to Tammy, and called her name, she would have been bitten. Tammy loves my sister, but she wasn’t having anyone come through the window.
Always have copies of your house keys hidden in some non-obvious (this rules out “under the doormat”) location on your property. After being locked out my own home once or twice, I purchased a clue and had copies made and hidden. What if your house was on fire and your children were alseep and locked inside?!? I repeat:
Always have copies of your house keys hidden somewhere.
If my house were on fire I’d kick the door in. No probs. The trick was to get back in… no, the trick turned out to be waking my boy up so I could get back in without having to fix something later. That’s what I was after, getting back in without having to fix something later.
But busting in in an emergency? Child’s play. (All your feelings of safety in your snug little house? They are ILLUSIONS! Bwa! Hahahahaha!) (Now someone’s going to say how much trouble they went to to make their abode Fort Knox-like.) (Knoxian?)
Did you see the movie Buster? It had Phil Collins in it. (Not “Colin” nor Canadian. Whatcha gonna do?) He had his key under the mat. Along with 4,000 other keys. It’s was GENIUS! I was thinking about putting a key in a birdhouse in the backyard. But I probably won’t. The keypad for the garage door opener is a good idea. The downside is my garage door opener is 15 years old and I’m not sure I can find one to work with it.
Maybe the hunk of fake doggie doo with the Hidden Key Compartment… That might be the way to go. Orrrr… just making sure I check the right handle. That might work too.
I’d like to say, while I’m here, how proud I am that this just perks along under it’s own power. I don’t have to shepherd it along at ALL. Maybe this should be a lesson to me. I’m not sure a lesson about what, but I figure I could learn something.
-Rue. (vacatiating)
I’m off the board for one week, one lousy week, and the Rue thread degenerates into a prosaic discussion concerning “where should we hide our house keys?”
It’s pitiful. Pathetic, even.
Where are the hijacks, huh? Where are the purple elephants, the SR-71 Blackbirds, the NCAA football option offense, and the Navy’s Surface Warfare Development proposal to mount batteries of modular one-shot laser emitters on warships for missle defense?
Where are they? Sheesh, I thought better of you people. We haven’t even gotten a Cat Update from Lissla. I am very, very disappointed.
Don’t make me go to the newbies and lurkers for help again.
What’s that? What?
Okay, you’re on.
I’ll bet welby’s soul that the first lurker or new member to post in this thread is more clever, funny, and just plain entertaining than anything that’s been tossed in here so far. If I lose, you get welby’s soul to do with what you will. If I win, you have to mention me in your signature for, eh, let’s say five minutes. I think that’s fair.
I’ve been to Ft. Knox and I gotta say I think it’s all the guys in uniform with big guns that keeps it so safe. Just not practical, really for your average homeowner.
Although it certainly is nice to fantasize about guys with big guns…
Anyway I’ve been locked out of the house twice only neither time involved a key.
Well, one did sorta. The first time I was coming home from work in the wee hours and my key wouldn’t work on the apartment door because the lock somehow broke while I was away. (House elves I bet.) I couldn’t call the landlord just then and I couldn’t afford a locksmith so I went to my brother’s place until morning. The second time I was in the backyard (different address) and darned if the lock on the door didn’t jam. (Possibly different house elves-I should look into that.) I tried breaking the lock but that’s a lot harder than I thought. I wandered next door to the neighbor’s house and borrowed her phone to call my brother. He brought over a spare key for the front door. And I got a small bonus into the bargain-I found out it was her cat that’s been pooping in my garden.
Everybody asleep yet?
If not, what’d y’all do on the 4th? I haven’t been around recently.
I know nothing about welby’s soul-nipples. That’s pretty much a huge metaphysical question I can’t begin to debate, because I am widely considered to be an idiot. Perhaps we should contact Polycarp and ask him for his opinion. Poly is really smart.
Of course, I’ve dragged this discussion into the theological gutter, so to speak, so I wouldn’t blame him for avoiding it altogether.
However, I figure that since welby was willing to trade my soul for one single night with a model Imperial Star Destroyer made of Legos, his soul might be worth five minutes of sig time.
Of course, that’s just my initial position. We can negotiate.
As I stated in my earlier post, it is highly unlikely that I will ever lock myself out of my house. Besides the fact that I always have my keys in my pocket, all of our doors need to be locked from the outside with the key. The only exception is the front door, which has one of those button doorknob locks which can be set to automatically lock when you close the door (not unlike Rue’s set-up). This is no longer activated after a friend who was staying in the house while my wife and I were out of town locked himself out by the simple expediant of closing the door and then checking to see if he had his keys. He ended up having to break a back porch window to get back in, after (according to him) a locksmith was unable to pick the doorknob lock.
Cat update, in lieu of Lissla’s: I currently have three cages in my dining room. Two of them each contain sixteen-month-old brother cats, and the third contains three six-week-old kittens and their mother. They are all confined for gross violations of the litter box laws. Well, the mother cat is with her kittens because they’re still nursing, although I’ve also explained to her that if she had properly trained her children in litter box usage these extreme measures would not have been necessary. This is complicating my usual feeding and litter box cleaning procedures, but it’s better than fighting a losing battle to keep the house clean. I have been assured that this method will eventually result in properly litter-trained cats, but for now all it’s getting me is plaintive meows and glares whenever I go near the cages.
I would attempt to respond to Exgineer’s challenge for a creative hijack (assuming I still qualify as a lurker), but I had a long weekend and my creative juices are…well, let’s not get into any discussions of my bodily fluids, real or metaphorical.
I had to go to bed last night with the front door unlocked. My kid was flying home from Baltimore, and she hadn’t taken her keys. I wasn’t about to wait up for her (altho I did wake up repeatedly to see if she’d gotten in yet) so I left the door unlocked and I let the dog roam free instead of putting her to bed in the laundry room.
I heard her bark at 2:14 AM (I looked at the clock) and I heard the kid tell the mutt to quiet down. Then I heard her lock the front door, put the dog in the laundry room, and go to her room. I’m exhausted this morning, and if I’d had vacation time to spare, I’d be home asleep right now. But I’m not. And I’m so tired I’m kinda dizzy.
Wow, Exgineer, there’s some serious devaluing of souls around here! One night with a Lego model!
I know it isn’t manly but since it does involve high tech equipment and bodily fluids… We go this afternoon for another peek at the boy (and whatever other innards they manage to see while there) and I submit to various tortures involving needles and plastic cups the size of film canisters!
This results in lots of ‘Wow is that the head?’ … Um no that’s the abdomen. ‘Oh… so that’s the stomach?’ … ‘No that’s a kidney’ ‘Oh … is that a leg?’ … ‘No that’s the umbilical cord.’
Every time we go I swear I won’t make a moron of myself trying to guess and yet every time I succeed brilliantly in making a moron of myself trying to guess. Once they are out and in color (not that grainy greyscale) I do much better, really!
Oh, dear. Looks like there’ll be another TorontoDope. I’ll go, of course, but I’ll sit there and be horribly shy again. Maybe I’ll be kidnapped by flying hippopotami shortly beforehand.
Maybe there will be a freak snowstorm when we’re in Iowa and we’ll be trapped there. And the pigs will eat us.
No, no I do want to go, I’m just shy. And only one person from a Rue thread will be there.
Look, I just knew Exgineer would take the whole “one night with a Lego model” thing wrong. I mean, it’s not like I picked something cheesy. I picked the best Lego set possible. And Ex wants to give away my soul for a little bit of Sig Time.
Oooh oooh! I’ll dump my woman and marry you if you get me that for my birthday. I have lots to offer. I cook, clean, and have all of Roger Waters’ stuff on both CD and MP3.
Here I have been avoiding posting to The Nipple Thread, only to have welby’s protuberances flung in my face in the MMP thread. A Luckless Day indeed! Everywhere I go, nipples, nipples, nipples. Itchy ones at that.
Lissla, don’t be shy at the dopefest! Spread the Rue Thread merriment. We order you to be Ruelike on our behalf. Take along some fake dog doo-doo. That oughta do it. (Do it! Ha!)
I have but one locked-out story, the details of which are fading into obscurity. Or they would, if it weren’t for the clear imprint of the bottom of my Birkinstock in the middle of my front door. It amuses my children to no end to see it, and being a basically untidy person, I leave it there, for the amusement and slovenliness of all. The most vivid thing I recall from that episode was borrowing the neighbor’s phone. After I explained my locked-out situation, he grudingly permitted me to use his phone, but only after ascertaining that it would, indeed, be a local call. Like I’m gonna call Outer Mongolia for help in re-entering the house! What an old cheapskate!
My Fourth of July Report centers on pets – my poor doggie completed her annual firework trauma right on schedule. Of course the fireworks in my neighborhood begin roughly on June 15, when people start heading for Tennessee, land of Really Dangerous Explosive Devices and One-Handed People. Last night the pops and explosions still lingered and Miss Doggie extended her underbed, cowering vigil.
Well, I’m not quite a newbie or lurker anymore, but I’ll give it a shot. Anything to keep Ex happy and soul-ful (as in having a soul, not James Brown-esque. As to the question of welby’s soul, I don’t really know. If I get welby’s soul, will I get itchy nipples?) Hmm, I guess I’m just not that entertaining/clever/funny this morning. It’s still pretty early out here. Oh, look, pigs! Here’s a story. A friend of mine was on tour with some musical and their tour bus got into an accident. It was a snowy, icy night, and the bus slid into a truck, crumpling the front of the bus. Everybody woke up, and went into the back lounge for a smoke/see what was going on. One guy opened a window to get a look around, and commented on all the pigs. This did not suprize anyone, as they all could see the flashing red and blue lights, although they did think calling the cops pigs was a bit much. Well, to make a long story short(er), it turns out they had hit a pig truck, and there were about 20 pigs sliding around on the icy highway, trying to get the hell away from everybody. Evidently, this was the funniest/strangest thing any of them had ever seen. And so ends my pig hijack. I don’t think it’s worthy of a soul, not even welby’s. Oh well.
Ok, so on preview I see that the whole soul thing has been decided already (I guess). I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: It takes me so long to write this crap while working that when I go to post it I’m suddenly half a page behind. Drives me nuts. I’m still going to post it anyway, though. And you can’t stop me. Nipples, nipples, nipples, nipples, nipples, nipples.
Sorry Welby but the hubby I already have cooks, cleans, does laundry, and many other important husbandly duties … some involving nipples. Oh and we have all of Roger Water’s stuff on CD and MP3 too… Guess you’ll just have to beg the little wimmin a bit more for the legos!
The secret, in my mind, to a good hijack, is the subtle but real relationship between something, albeit one word only, in the OP and the hijack.
I never had monsters under my bed. Well, okay, the monster that ate toes if you stuck your foot over the side outside the covers (but over the side under the covers was safe, at least from the toe monster, who was easily fooled by covered toes), but that wasn’t a real monster, that was just a fact of life, like the mean dog behind the fence on the corner–it couldn’t hurt you even though it sounded tough, so you just learned to deal with it (usually by walking on the other side of the street).
Anyway, instead of monsters, I had a tiger. Yep. A big yellow, Bengal tiger slept between my bed and my sister’s bed. It would eat me up if I got out of bed. I could climb over the end of the bed, but I had to be very quiet or the tiger would figure it out and then I’d really be trapped. My sister, of course, denied the existence of the tiger–but what could you expect, she wanted a room to herself and we all knew it. I often had to get out of bed at night because I had to turn on the kitchen light after everyone else had gone to bed (my bedroom was right off the kitchen). I’m not sure what would happen if I didn’t turn on the light, perhaps the tiger would have invited friends over, I just know that it was imperative that I do so. Mom was pretty resigned about it, but Dad was pretty insistant that I stop turning on the light. It was an impasse, let me tell you.
I also had to get out of bed when my sisters made brownies after my bedtime. Here I was on pretty safe ground, because the tiger was fond of brownies and I always shared. Of course, the fact that my sister would occasionally step on a brownie first thing in the morning may have been one reason why she wanted her own room, I see that now, but was it my fault that the tiger didn’t always finish his snack?
Kallessa, I know where you’re coming from. My bedroom had a fox that lived under the bed. He was smarter than your toe monster, though - anything not-on-the-bed, whether under covers or not, was Fair Game.
My mother asked me every morning why I was so tangled up in my covers.
And every single time she went to look for that fox it was gone.
<shrug>
I dunno, it must’ve been hunting for Day Toes, or something.
And that is my favorite Roger Waters album.