New Adventures and Accidents

Well well well, if it isn't me again.  Over a year later, holding true to the title of Amusing Initiatives.  So, where did I last leave you?  Oh yeah....I was a teacher.  In the public school systems.  In Fort Wayne.  In a house I had recently purchased.  And with a dog I impulsively adopted from a shelter who I contemplated adopting back out during his reign of puppyhood terror.  Another amusing initiative.

Obviously, as everyone is well aware, that is no longer my life in most regards.  I am still hopelessly clumsy, uncoordinated and experiencing freak accidents.  However, I am now a lot happier than I had been previously and can't say that I have any regrets about moving forward with life.

Relocating to Indianapolis was such a great choice.  Ever since Day 1 I have been positive that I made a good decision.  And ever since Day 1 I have also been positive that my life will continue to be full of idiotic blonde moments that amuse me (probably more than they should) and those around me that I choose to share my... short comings with, so to speak.  Where do I begin?  Oh, yes, let me share with you my experience first night here.

I had the WONDERFUL fortune of finding a rental duplex near my dear friends in Indianapolis, who will remember fondly and surely lovingly of my incessant text messages of being apprehensive that any location I chose to live I was surely to be raped, robbed or murdered.  What is it with that intense fear of moving to a big city from a smaller one that automatically signals to the brain that terrible things are bound to happen?  Maybe it is the constant oracle story telling power of my mother (God love her) who has always had first hand knowledge of a story of the most terrible misfortune that has happened to someone's aunt Gladys's third cousin once removed by divorce but rejoined by marriage in which they became the 1/1000 in the odds that the event would happen, happened to.  (I will end my sentences in prepositional phrases if I damn well please.)  Or maybe I read the news too often.  Or maybe I had developed my own mason jar full of fears that the big city is the King Koopa Castle of levels that I am unlikely to beat.  Regardless of the cause, I am now able to laugh about how small town scared I was my first few nights here.  As well as what actually happened my first night.

Relocating cities is a nightmare.  Especially when you have moved so often that nobody is willing to assist you any longer as it seems like a fruitless effort--except shout out to Terri, Jessica, Taegan and my mom (who might have considered homicide as an option at this point) .  My mother and I, thanks to her wonderful connections, had hired movers (THE BEST MONEY I HAVE EVER SPENT) to move my house.  However, I was much too impatient to wait until the day the movers were available to leave (I left on a Saturday, they were coming Monday) and decided to pack up Jude and my most essential belongings (turns out I have poor judgment about what "essential" really means and had to shower at a friend's house because I misjudged just how essential a shower curtain and soap are to daily living) and did so in a hurry.  I forgot everything.  I had no bed.  I had no food.  I had no hygiene products. Not a TV or DVD player. I didn't even f-ing bring blankets.  Poor planner.  I spent my first two nights on the floor of my new bedroom on an air mattress I had gotten on loan from a friend, with my dog, with several kitchen knives at my side.  Because I become a hibachi chef when danger arrives.  Apparently that was my thinking.  But before I get to actually sleeping.... let's go over what events took place.

So, I had been enjoying a few spirits at my wonderful new neighbors' and dear friends' house.  (Mind you this was in the middle of the polar vortex).  I came home and decided to unpack the piddly and nonsensical items I had actually decided to bring.  The garage to my duplex is a detached garage (another nightmare of stupid things I've done, you just wait) and has a remote that I had been pushing from inside the house.  However, I couldn't see if the garage had closed or not from any of the windows in the house.  Before I get into this, set the stage.  It's 3 AM, first night in my new place, Antarctica is waiting for me on the other side of the door, I'm slightly intoxicated (sorry Mom), I'm wearing a thing hoodie and leggings and am JUST READY TO SLEEP.  Next to my kitchen knives on an air mattress on the floor. I had gone through the house locking all of the windows as well as the back door. I went to shut the garage door I had left open, wasn't sure if it had closed.  I live in a house built in 1921.  The doors are authentic to the time period.  Nobody told me this.  Do you know what authentic means?  It means this solid wood door has these pin switches in the inside of the door on the side that you have to push to keep it unlocked.  Nobody told me this.  I put on my Totes furry boots and walked outside, in only the clothes I had on, to ensure that the garage was shut.  Well my spazoid, separation anxiety riddled dog got all upset that I was outside and JUMPS on the back of the door. Yeah that slight feeling of dread like "Ha OMG are you serious? No way, that is so awful" immediately set over me and I believe I actually laughed and said, "OMG are you serious? No F-ING WAY THAT JUST HAPPENED."  I for some reason didn't panic.  It was more like, "Well, of course that happened.  I half expected something of this nature.  I'll work it out."  So, I went around to every window that I had just locked, hoping I hadn't locked it, and tried to get in.  Nope.  Wasn't happening.  So I thought, ok, well it wasn't that long ago I left my friends, perhaps they're still awake.  So I walk the 3 minutes to their house.  What's that?  A beacon light of hope on on the front porch?  Win! I'm sure to have at least a warm place to stay until I can call my new landlord who is surely going to hate me immediately when I call him with tomorrow with this first issue of locking myself out of the house.  Unfortunately, nobody was on the porch.  So, I decide to knock.  It's 3 AM on the East side of Indianapolis.  Nobody is expecting or certainly welcoming a strange knock at the door at 3 am (for those of you wondering why I didn't go to the duplex neighbor's house, who I've still never seen by the way).  So I knocked gently for a while.  Trying to voice my presence and explaining how deeply sorry I am to be bothering them at this hour.  No response.  Knock louder.  No response after 5 minutes.  Decide I'll just go home vs. getting stabbed by my friends who may also sleep with kitchen shanks next to their bed and break a window.  So I walk back.  In my light hoodie, leggings, and Totes snow boots contemplating which window I'll break first.  I evaluated it upon which window would be easiest to get in.  The windows on the porch are climable (yikes) so that was my first bet.  I approach the window, Jude is still inside barking wildly at the desire for my presence INSIDE the home (I hear ya buddy) and am first presented with the obstacle of the screen.  Well of course I'll just tear that off, screens can't be that expensive to replace.  (I'd like to add I started considering monetarily, the best choice of windows to break.)  So, I start to poke a hole in the screen because that is obviously the most sensical thing to do.  It starts disintegrating with each tear and I'm pretty sure evaporating into my eye sockets and absorbing into the alevoli pockets of my lungs.  I probably have mesothelioma now.  Well, the screen was equipped with another glass pane behind it, in addition to the window which is at least 80 years old.  Might have a hefty bill replacing this.  I then remembered that the back door has the standard 4 panes of windows on it and that one pane is conveniently located next to the lock on the door.  Oh yeah.  I locked the storm door too.  What's that?  Pull it on ravenously until you break the metal piece that keeps the door shut off the frame?  Of course.  Found a rock.  Picked it up and bashed twice before break through.  (I was asked why I didn't throw it--in case you're wondering, it's now nearly 3:30 am (do you understand that it was late because I keep mentioning its importance to the story), I'm a new tenant in the neighborhood, I was trying to be as inconspicuous in my green sweatshirt and bleach blonde hair as possible.)  Reach in, unlocked the door.  Oh wait-- you locked the wooden door inside the house that goes to the main floor of the house too?  Well, of course you yank on it like it's the doorway between Heaven and Hell until you pull that lock out of that door frame and get in.  Win.

I then proceeded to use packing materials (i.e. leftover puppy potty pads and bubble wrap) to cover the break, as well as tried to cover the whole window and screen door as I wanted to create the illusion that I was actually just trying to save money on heat.  And I used black electrical tape.  And ran out of puppy pads so only half of the window was ever covered.  Because that's all I had.  Yeah...it did look real hillbilly.  And still does.  I haven't bothered to fix it.  Don't worry, I have a security system.

So that, my friends, was how my first night in my new place went.  I am no longer fearful of where I live but do continue to have really stupid accidents and misfortunes.  Next blog--- broken garage doors, bones and railings.  Until then, enjoy being a normal human being.  And I don't feel like spell/grammar checking this, forgive me.