Night of the Cheap Jive Jukebox

The Muppet Show was one of the staples I could count on watching when I was little. It started at 8 p.m. and ended half an hour later, which coincided with my bedtime. To this day I have fond memories of mahna-mahna, Harry Belafonte’s “Turn the World Around” and Pigs in Space. In just half an hour’s time, we got to know Gonzo, Scooter, Kermit, Miss Piggy. Fozzie, Rowlff, the Electric Mayhem, Dr. Honeydew and Beaker, The Swedish Chef and so many more. Just thinking of the opening theme song makes me smile. Kids got to see the muppet version of a variety show (and ponder how Kermit had the time to host that and show up regularly on Sesame Street) and adults got to watch it with kids and laugh at the innuendos. I loved the Muppet Show. Loved it!

Well, most of it.

There was a dark side to all of this joy—a fear buried deep in my subconscious, and revealed one night when I woke up panicked. It was one of those nights where I couldn’t get back to sleep unless I went to my parents’ bed. To this day I don’t know why that feels safe—once you’re asleep, you’re back to dreaming by yourself, but maybe you feel better knowing someone will be right beside you to hear the screams.

Anyway, let’s get down to the thing about the Muppet show that I didn’t like. It was the stuff of nightmares--the invention of a mad man.

Sweetums, you say?

No, no, not him. He was just a big teddy bear.

Animal?

No, no. He was wild, but harmless.

Gonzo? Even if we never could figure out if he was a mosquito or a bird, he wouldn’t hurt a thing.

The thing I was scared of was…

M.A.M.M.A.! (cue music from "Psycho")

I wasn’t even bothered by this thing when it was on the air. Its debut appearance was with Dudley Moore, possibly the least threatening man in the world (yes, I know, I mean when he was alive). It looked like a parody of R2D2—it even had a cameo appearance in “Pigs In Space,” but in my dreams, M.A.M.M.A. was relentless. I remember looking at the hardwood floors as I ran from it, my heart racing as I tried to get away. Despite its clunky appearance, M.A.M.M.A. was agile. The moment I saw that it had no problems following me down the stairs marked the time when I woke up screaming.

So many years later, I decided to try my hand in finding this monster—just to prove to myself that it wasn’t something my mind had conjured up. I tried several variations of the spelling, and finally stumbled onto the right webpage, which had a brief description and a photo. It’s funny now, to think I lost a night of sleep over a robotic muppet--a joke really, but there it is. What was I so scared of? That the thing would blast music at me once I was cornered? You can laugh, I don’t mind, but don’t come crying to me when you wake up in the middle of the night, terrified of the "cheap jive jukebox" chasing you down the stairs.

UPD8 (follow that car)

If anyone remembers the gray car from my post awhile back, just yesterday I happened to see the driver of that very car.

My description to the artist composing the the composite sketch would go like this:

He's got brown hair and is balding
A mustache
In his 40's
Weak chin...

See where I'm going with this? I was envisioning Paul Walker's character from The Fast and the Furious (or even his nemesis "Johnny Tran") and the reality was closer to "Milton" from Office Space.

What's that, you say? What if it wasn't the right guy?

Oh no, no, no, trust me on this one--the way he gunned it out of the parking garage exit confirmed that this was the guy--this was the nutcase who thought it was a good idea to challenge me to a duel smack in the middle of rush hour on the interstate. If I had seen him away from the driver's seat, I would guess he was meek. Shy, even!

I guess some of us really do change once we're strapped into a two ton, 200+ horsepower exoskeleton.

Didn't Ask

Generally people don’t talk on the train. If you see someone wearing headphones, take that as a blatant sign that they intend to be left alone. If I’m wearing headphones, and you talk to me, I will take one out to listen and respond, but I am not there for conversation. I’m there to get home, or get to work, depending on the direction of the train.

You can tell when someone wants to engage in conversation--they make an extra effort to make eye contact until you look up and you're trapped. They smile. You smile. Then it's too late to pretend it never happened. You have to interact now.

“What’s that book about?” said a smirking guy who happened to read the title of the book I was holding (“Naked," by David Sedaris--that was fun to explain.) Sometimes you get a smile, or a “Good morning” and that’s it. Or else the train operator will make a humorous announcement and for a moment, we all laugh, but seconds later we’re back to our papers, or iPods, or Blackberrys. Don’t lament the realization that people can ride in the same train and not have a meaningful bonding experience. Please. I have ridden with the same people for years and I don't speak to any of them or ask where they work or what their lunch sacks contain. They see me too, and no,they don't ask me anything either. Well most of the time they don't.

A few weeks after returning from maternity leave, I was waiting on the train platform and a guy approached me to ask how the baby was doing. That warmed my cold, cold heart just a fraction of a degree. We introduced ourselves and maintained a quasi friendship, but I assume he’s moved to a different route because I haven’t seen him in months. Maybe years. It was nice while it lasted, but I’m not striking up new conversations to fill the void. Tragic, I know but don't cry for me; I’ll be okay. Really.

Yesterday’s seatmate was a talker. I started writing a letter to my friend in my notebook, and he asks if I'm writing my memoirs or a manifesto. I pulled out my earbud and told him I'm writing a letter, and like the smart ass I am, I added "You know, people still write those."

Then (though I didn’t ask) he showed me his book and informed me that he was reading up on how to save money on mortgages. I faked a smile and said that was good to do. Then I popped the earbuds back into place and continued penning my manifesto.

The ride was uneventful until we approached the end of the line, when I put away my notebook and pulled out my iPhone. I was just getting into the 15 game when my seatmate says, "Are you still in school?"

Huh?

I don’t know why he asked. I would like to think it’s because I possess the youthful glow of an undergrad but let's not kid ourselves. I said, "No. I'm done." (I realize that was a very final answer. The truth is, I don’t know if I’m done—maybe I’ll go back at some point, but when you know the guy next to you is a yackity mofo, you state the facts and hope they shut up.)

He didn’t shut up. Just as I lifted the earbud to my ear (which was the unspoken cue for him to end the conversation), seatmate says,

"So what do you do?"

"I'm a government contractor" (Yes, I know, this is as vague as it gets, but remember, “just the facts.” Then hope they shut up.)

"I'm a consultant" (Note: also vague. In fact, more vague than my response. Also note: I didn’t ask.)

Then he pulls out the business card. It’s a glossy thing, and kind of homemade looking--the card stock was flimsy and the print was crooked. At this point, I figured out that this was yet another Amway-Quixtar-like pyramid scheme (okay, okay, multi-level marketing "business").

I stuff my earbuds back into my bag because I know what follows a business card is a pitch, especially if the card is advertising a borderline pyramid scheme. I’m not at the point where I can totally ignore the person next to me when directly addressed, but I imagine attaining that skill is very freeing. Maybe one day I'll know that freedom. For now, I will pretend to listen, and I’ll nod periodically so you believe I’m listening.

The pitch went something like:
“I work for an energy company--utilities are being deregulated and now people can choose their utility company and …Dallas…opportunity…free trips…points…we’re different because…and not everyone does that…”

Me: *nodding*

"...so there are a lot of opportunities out there, so if you or your husband..."

Me: (thinking) Whew, this isn’t a pick up; he mentioned my husband.

“The website is right there on the business card.” (points to the web address in case I couldn’t recognize it on my own)

Me: "Okay, I'll look into it."

Me: (thinking) Not.

Everyone in sales, pay close attention, I’m coming to the part where my seatmate failed as a salesperson. Ever notice how some people ask how you’re doing and after you provide your generic one sentence answer, they launch into a soliloquy? They didn't REALLY care how you were doing, they only asked get it out of the way so they can talk about themselves without seeming rude for not asking about you. People want to talk about themselves. The trick to sales is simple--you do just the opposite of what most people do. You get people to talk about themselves, and you listen. And act interested. Learn the names of the people they care about, listen to them tell you what they want to do when they grow up. People like talking about themselves and they like doing that with people who appear to care. Once you’re in good, you’re just an interviewer collecting the story and once you’re in really good, you become family. They forget it’s about business and boom, you're in like Flynn (who is that guy, anyway?). Beyond the school question, did this guy do any of that? Nope. He talked about himself.

Here's what I learned without even having to ask:

Seatmate was enlisted in the Air Force and then got commissioned through ROTC

He has a dual bachelor's degree

He has a triple master's degree (in aerospace engineering and two more things listed after I stopped listening)

In the middle of his monologue, seatmate turned to greet a random Asian man on the train. How he knew the right language or that the man would understand, I don’t know. But the man answered and the two chuckled. Then seatmate turned back and said:

“I’m also learning Chinese.”

Me: “Oh.”

Me (thinking) Am I supposed to applaud?

Other stuff I was told by seatmate without asking:

He owns a million dollar business

He has teenaged sons

At some point I mentioned that I had been in the Army. This was the guy’s chance to redeem himself as a salesperson and ask about ME. He didn’t. Which is actually okay; I was just testing him and he didn’t disappoint. I suppose he exhausted any more opportunities to tell me about himself because he finally fell silent.

Then he started talking to the Air Force sergeant to the left of me. The unsuspecting guy was reading something and all of a sudden he’s interrupted with:

“Hey Sarge…”

(I don't know ANY non-commissioned officer outside of Beetle Bailey that wants to be addressed as "Sarge," and the fact that the man asking had served added insult to injury—he should have known better. Who does that?)

This pretend interest in “Sarge” turned out to be more opportunity for seatmate to brag. He started grilling this dude on his specialty and plans for life after retirement (strangely enough he didn’t produce a business card and sales pitch, though). Then seatmate took the opportunity to tell the sarge how he had ten of the ribbons that sarge was currently wearing. Then he asked sarge if he knew any languages. “No,” Sarge replied. Seatmate looked mildly disappointed. I half-expected him to brag about his skills in Chinese, but he didn’t go there. The conversation ended (thankfully) when seatmate explained to Sarge that he retired from the Air Force as a (wait for it) field grade officer.

Mind you, “Sarge” didn’t ask. No one asked. We just wanted to get off the train and go home.

Selectively Yours

Friends, acquaintances, relatives, crushes of years gone by, classmates (high school and college), the ladies I met through a wedding planning website, people who knew me from 7th grade and earlier and last but not least, my dear husband—
Lend me your ears. Or, rather, your eyes.

Let’s talk about Facebook.

I know, I know. I was born in the ‘70’s, the era of bad hair, bad car designs and mostly bad music. Given the site's original purpose of having college-aged members, I have no business there. Facebook is where you broadcast your most miniscule thoughts, post the most obscure photos from your meager existence or sign up to be a fan of Duran Duran simply by clicking the link on their page. What respectable 30 something does that? Okay, I do that here too, but Facebook lets you gather all of that information from looking at just a few pages. As much of your life that you want out there is available for the world or just your “friends” to see, neatly catalogued in a series of tabbed pages.

“What’s the point of those ‘networking’ sites anyway?”

This was asked of me by my husband, who, within a few short months easily surpassed me in the number of “friends” in his account. It’s not surprising—even at my own reunion, more people remembered him than me. That's just the kind of guy he is. ♥

“I never got into the Facebook thing,” said my sister. In other words, “I’m too cool for that bullshit.” “Hm. I didn’t know you were on there,” I replied, “’Friend’ me!”

Days later, she had reconnected with her best friend from junior high school. Junior high! Now it’s not uncommon to find my sister lurking there when I’m on as well. Too cool, indeed.

I have no idea what spurred me to get an account. Curiosity, I guess? I wanted to know what was the big deal about Facebook. I had already seen MySpace and was none too impressed. The bad wallpaper, the musical loops some people attached to their craptastic pages—unless there’s some reason that I find myself in need of raising my blood pressure, testing my retinas or inducing a seizure, I say good day and no thank you to all of that.

Then there’s Facebook—relatively bland in comparison, with its blue border and white pages. Fine, I told myself, let’s give it a whirl.

Now here comes the weird part—if you arrive uninvited, you get tempted to do searches. “Let’s see if so-and-so’s on here?” You think.

Then you do the search. Then you sift through all of the people with the same or similar names until you land on who you presume is the right person. The thought that follows is this:

“If I send out a friend request, the person will know I searched for them.”

And therefore:

“…this person will think I’m a stalker.”

I have a tough time with those friend requests because I’m overly concerned about what the recipient is going to think of me.

Is it going to be:

“Heh-heh-heh, I knew she would never forget me.”

Or:

“Is this the same person I knew from school/work/the Army/(and so on)?”

Or, simply, a harmless but kind of mortifying:

“Who?”

I have a pretty recognizable name, but just because I think it’s recognizable is no guarantee that everyone else will remember.

I have to get over this, I know. I have gotten a few requests that were complete shockers, taking me back two decades to the days when life was so much simpler (even though I didn’t know it at the time). Never have I thought of someone as a stalker even if they obviously went through the task of typing my name into the search engine.

Once in awhile I have gotten a request and thought, “Who?” but it’s rare, I promise. If I forgot you, let me say in my defense that the memory is the first to go. Did I already mention I was 33?

So what about these "friends?" Some friends are closer to the true meaning of the word than others, but here they all carry equal standing, and they're all a mouse click away, neatly arranged in an alphabetized list.

After you sign up you get to the business of setting up your profile. This includes schools you attended, places you work, where you live and of course, the part where you talk about you, yourself and a few of your favorite things. At first I had all kinds of stuff about favorite movies, TV shows and quotations. Then I looked at it and thought, “So what?” So I deleted it. But to those following my saga, I am halfway through my definitive collection of the Twilight Zone, my TV watching is spotty these days and I have a couple of quotations, but they're both from Stephen King. What does that say about me?

Then there's the photo. What face do you want to present to the rest of the world? This is kind of nice because you can choose one where you have on a cute outfit or where your hair looks good. You have the benefit of choosing one of your better days versus the hand you were dealt when you woke up that morning. You can look bored, maniacal, happy or furious. Why not add in the kid(s), the pet, or the significant other? You can be portrayed in an artistic black and white headshot or standing at a distance, at a creative angle. Or be edgy and represent yourself in a "Where's Waldo" fashion as a face in a crowd, or better yet as an image of some other random person, place or thing. Those who truly know you won't have to ask; they'll get the joke. And if you don’t like the photo, no worries, you can change it anytime.

Back to the original question: what's the point? You get to show summarize your life to everyone else, but you show only what you choose to display. And so does everyone else.

Deep, right? (okay, not really, but work with me, I had to wrap up this up eventually)

Welcome To Stankonia (AKA The Apple Store)

Let me preface this entry by saying I genuinely appreciate Apple products. Function is important, but so is form, and I think Apple captures that best with their gadgets and gizmos. I still remember the computer lab from second grade, equipped with nothing but Apple IIe machines. I remember the Mac we used in our high school publishing class. I remember a friend I visited in college, who also had a Mac on her dorm room desk. Even then I appreciated the outward simplicity and the aesthetic appeal that was missing on bigger, clunkier PC desktops and towers, with their busy keyboards, tangled up cords and enormous CRT monitors.

I like to remind my husband that I was the catalyst in the decision to dump our P.O.S. Gateway Desktop for an Apple (this is one part of my master plan to ensure that he never forgets how fantastic his life is with me in it--it's like getting a color television after watching black & white for 23 years). Regarding "the switch", he fought and fought, but eventually he gave in and voila, we are an Apple household.

While I like most things Apple related, boy do I hate going to the House of Apple; in fact, a few posts ago I promised to write about my hatred of the Apple Store. Why? Because it's always more fun to read a rant. No one wants to hear about the love because they don't want the sweet--they want the bitter. This is the same reason why the villians are almost always more complicated and interesting than the heros.

Without further ado, here are my Reasons For Hating The Apple Store:

1) The place is stink, stank, stunk.
Even in an airy mall, once you're two steps into the Apple store, you're confronted with the funk of the ages. After the iPod came about, Apple was no longer a secret held close by a few. This means the stores are swarmed with people, and also, their various degrees of stink. My husband likened it to the way Zion must smell (from the Matrix). The city was home to thousands of people, stuck deep underground, living in cavelike dwellings with limited resources. Think of the logistics of that. Think of the stink. I'd say my husband is not far off in his assessment.

2) The Genius Bar.
First of all, what is up with the name? I can take Geek Squad or Dorks on Call, but Genius Bar? Do I need to ask what that implies of the rest of us? Is insulting the customers the way to go these days?

And now, with the influx of new Apple Customers, you can't even get a same day appointment at the Genius Bar anymore. Boo.

3) Some of the "geniuses."
Technically this belongs in the previous complaint, I know, but in my warped little mind it's a separate issue. The last trip I made to the genius bar involved a cracked case on the MacBook I bought two months earlier. I couldn't believe it happened. I went online and found that this is a common problem. I clicked through a bunch of photos of cracked macs--there was even a group on flickr created specifically because of this problem.

When I took it to the store, the "genius" assigned to my case smugly informed me that the crack formed because I was closing it too hard. O-kay...somehow the 5 year old ibook I replaced took the beatings just fine, but this new laptop was a delicate little flower. The funny part was that one of the MacBooks that the "geniuses" use was cracked in the same exact place as mine. Case cracked closed: It's a design flaw. It would have been better for this "genius" to admit that instead of blaming me.

He took my laptop and I received it two days later, repaired for free under the warranty.

"This has a reinforced plastic case now," says the genius, "it should be fine."

Well guess what--three months later it's cracked again (okay, this is turning into a product complaint, but what the hell, I'm going with it). I guess the reinforced plastic lasted an additional month of use before it gave out. I hesitate to return to the store because it doesn't affect the computer at all, it's just aesthetic damage, or, in the words of Monty Python's black knight, "'Tis but a scratch!" In the meantime, I have a bandaid holding things together. I'll get it fixed; I just need to go on a day when I have some built up nasal congestion so I can deal with the stink. Or else I'll send my husband to do it (ah, the beauty of being married--you can send your spouse to do your dirty work. Bonus points if he or she actually likes doing it.)

Pond Water People

(please note that this story contains a misspelled profanity of the F variety.)

My commute is mostly a ride on the metro with one transfer between trains. In the mornings it’s red line to yellow line, and in the evenings it’s the reverse (duh). The morning transfer involves a trip down to the lower platform, via the escalator. Due to the timing of the trains, you usually have a wait, but sometimes, if you’re fast enough, you can get off of the red train and get down to the yellow before the doors close.

This is assuming you don't have a crowd of people moving like pond water in front of you. Even then, moving quickly is not a guarantee you'll make the train. You might reach the platform in time, but you're too slow to bridge the distance between the bottom step and the open doors. Missing a train by seconds leaves you just enough time for you to hit the brakes before you smack into the closed doors. At that point, it's not even about catching the train, it's about salvaging your pride, which is harder if the people inside of the train witnessed the whole thing.

If you're close enough to the front car, sometimes you can look over and see the train operator with his or her head poked out of the window. If it’s a merciful person, he or she might open the doors, or wait for everyone running down the steps before shutting them. If it’s a sadist, the operator will make eye contact and smirk at you for a second, and then, just as you think the doors will open, the train operator retracts his or her head back into the train and leaves you to watch what could’ve been your ride as it disappears down the dark tunnel.

One of the things I gained from going to West Point was the ability to walk quickly. “Move with a purpose” was the running motto for most of the first year you spent in the place. It gets so ingrained that after awhile, you no longer know how to move at a relaxed pace. Living on the sixth floor transferred this skill to being able to descend a stairwell in eight tenths of a second. All of these skills are helpful if you have to hurry up to catch a train. And if there are pond water people in front of you, the art of moving with a purpose quickly turns into a curse.

This morning, guess what—I had the pond water people in front of me. From the down escalator, I had a perfect view of the yellow train with its open doors and empty seats. Sure, everyone was walking down the escalator steps, but this was a Friday crowd on the eve of a summertime weekend. No one was moving with a purpose, except me. I wanted to say something. “Move it or lose it” was trapped in my throat as I watched the doors close and found myself only midway down the escalator.

As the train pulled off, I exhaled. I was not going to be like that woman, I told myself.

What woman?

The one who was in a similar predicament on one of my more recent commutes. You see, that day I was the pond water person. Usually I will hurry down the steps, but the people ahead of me were slow. Besides, the train waiting at the platform was not a yellow line train, but a green line train, so I was content to move with the slow flow that morning.

Even with my back to her, I could feel the anger bursting to the surface. You know how it goes, the impatient breathing, the sensation that someone’s toes are grazing your heels—but what could I do? The escalator was packed and the people ahead weren’t going any faster. This was rush hour traffic without the cars.

Then, just as I approached the bottom of the steps, the warning chime sounded and the train doors closed.

“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCK!” shouted the woman.

Look, I know that feeling. I’ve said it many times in my head and out loud. But never in a crowded train station when the next train was due to arrive in two minutes. I even felt like that today, but you didn't hear a peep out of me. Not even a sanitized “Fudge” could be justified. I calmly accepted my fate, stepped onto the platform and waited for the next train.

And what did I do after the woman's outburst?

I ducked my head down after she said it, partly because I was hiding a disbelieving smile and partly because I figured the blows would be coming next. With a smirk, I took my place on the platform and watched her train disappear down the dark tunnel.

Locks and Ladders

I was cooking ground beef for homemade burritos when I got the idea to check the mail.

If I run downstairs and grab the mail and come right back, it won't matter that the stove is on. It'll take less than a minute.

I grabbed the key from the counter top and dashed out. What was the big deal about checking the mail? I don't really remember. This was during my unemployment sabbatical from work. My best guess is that I was probably looking forward to receiving a letter from my best friend (or from Publisher's Clearing House).

I pulled the letters from the mailbox, locked it and rushed back upstairs to the apartment. When I reached the door, I looked at the lock. Then I looked at my hand. In my palm was one key: the mail key.

With a sinking feeling in my gut, I realized that someone, in an effort to travel lighter, had separated the mail key from the house and car keys. Sure, it might have been me, but for now it was easier to blame someone.

I attempted the credit card trick with the stiffest envelope in my hand, but unfortunately for me, credit card statements do not behave like credit cards. I pushed the mail key against the keyhole, thinking, maybe?

No, it didn't work. The movies always make breaking in seem so effortless. Well, I'm here to tell you--it's not.

As my bad luck would have it, my husband wasn't due home for another two hours. He was doing a dinner program for work, which left me home alone with the cats, who were all locked inside with no comprehension of English and no opposable thumbs.

I had to think quickly; the beef was cooking.

My first stop was the apartment office. Everyone cleared out at 6, but I was hoping someone would be hanging around late, that maybe I could enjoy a happy coincidence after my shitty luck.

The place was deserted.

If all else failed, I could call someone from the office to get the apartment key so I could unlock the door. The catch was in the small print of the apartment lease. If you called after hours, it was 50 bucks. Fifty bucks! When you're unemployed on a sabbatical, the best solution is the one that's closest to free.

I ran back to the apartment (the beef was cooking) and tried to devise another solution. I went around to the back side of the building, to the grassy hill that my balcony overlooked. Even though it was just one level up, I was in no shape to attempt it.

The movies make scaling a building look so effortless. Well, I'm here to tell you--it's not.

I could hear the smoke alarm screeching. I thought back to the conversation we had with the apartment manager when we toured the building. She said one smoke alarm would set off a chain reaction throughout the apartments that shared the same building. I'm happy to report that this was a lie. The only alarm going nuts was the one in my apartment.

I needed another plan of attack (the beef was burning).

Our apartment building shared the road with a duplex. I could see this house from the balcony window and I often wondered how the occupants felt about having a five story building towering next to their back yard. Did they resent us? I approached the house, but I wasn't going to ask them this just yet. I was going to ask them something completely different.

You see, parked next to the house was a Comcast cable van. On top of the van was a ladder. With a ladder, I could easily reach the balcony and get through the door that I didn't lock.

The people in the house were nice enough, but I had to wait for the cable guys to finish up. This was understandable; when you wait a week for the cable guys to come by, and you take off work so you're available during the four hour window when they're supposed to arrive, you don't want to let some interloper swoop in to steal your cable guy.

I waited in front of the house, making sure to glance in the direction of the apartment complex with an eye trained to any smoke plumes that might be rising from the vicinity of my apartment.

Eventually the cable guys emerged from the house. This was when I had to put aside my panic and be charming enough to convince them that lending their ladder wasn't an invitation to a lawsuit.

Let me tell you, the charm worked like, well, a charm. The guys pulled the van closer to the building and followed me with the ladder in tow.

"Please don't fall," said the guy who was holding the ladder. I reached the balcony and threw a leg over the railing.

Strangely enough, what I was doing was a repeat of something that happened when I was a kid. My family had set out to run some errands on a weekend, and for some reason, we ended up dropping off my mom. My dad, sister and I went home. It was then that we realized my mother was the one holding the house key. Even back then, someone was carrying out the sinister plot to separate keys.

Without bugging the neighbors or hounding innocent cable guys, my dad calmly took the ladder from the shed and extended it three stories up, to the balcony on the top floor while my sister and I watched from below. From there, he climbed over the railing and entered the house through the sliding glass door.

The fumes of burning beef and scorched teflon hit my nostrils as soon as I opened the door. I turned off the stove, opened the windows and went back outside to thank the cable guys.

Lessons learned:
1) Be nice to your neighbors; you never know when you'll need to borrow a cable guy
2) Don't check your mail if you're cooking
3) Don't separate the keys, no matter how much someone insists.