Dave left yesterday afternoon for Oregon. He has some work thing in Portland, and he’s going to stay the weekend to do some sightseeing. I love Portland, and I have two uncles there who I adore and would love to see, so it would’ve been great if I could have gone with him. But, I had meetings today that I couldn’t cancel, so instead, he’s off in Oregon on his own. He’d better bring me back something pretty.

So, Kris has been leaving for work really early in the morning because she has an insane commute. From our house to her office is over 30 miles, which in Seattle rush hour traffic takes well over an hour. Since I leave almost two hours after she does, I’ve been taking Lucky out in the morning so she can go potty one last time before she gets locked up in the house for the day. I really love the dog, so I don’t mind doing that at all. Yesterday morning, however, she somehow managed to yank the leash out of my hand. She runs to the end of the leash all the time, so I don’t know how she caught me off guard, I guess I wasn’t fully awake yet. But she got a running start, and bam! The leash hit the ground, which might as well have been a starter pistol for how fast she took off down the driveway and across the street. The plastic handle of the leash bouncing on the ground behind her sounded kind of similar to the noise that kids’ bikes make when there are playing cards in the wheel spokes.

I went chasing after her – in clogs, because I am lazy and didn’t feel like putting on real shoes for taking the dog out – screaming for her to come back (morning, neighbors!), which of course she totally ignored. (And for the record, she does know that command because it works when we’re inside the house, or if the gate is closed and she’s running around the fenced-in yard. The dog just has selective hearing. Apparently she and my dad have a lot in common.) She headed down a dead-end street, so I wasn’t totally terrified of her getting hit by a car, but I was a little worried about having to chase after her into our neighbors’ yards.

I finally caught up with her a good five or ten minutes later, making me officially late for work. She had found an interesting scent in our neighbor’s hedges, and the leash was lying in the street, so I managed to grab the leash and yank her over to me. I was so mad that I smacked her on the head and yelled, “Bad dog!!” Now, before anyone freaks out on me: I didn’t hit the dog hard at all. I used the tips of my fingers, not the palm of my hand. I use more force when I’m smoothing down my own hair. I just wanted to make sure I had her attention. And boy, did I ever. The look she gave me when I yelled at her can only be described as utter shock and betrayal. Because, you know, I’m supposed to be the fun aunt, not the mean mommy. For the rest of the walk back to our house, every couple of minutes she’d look at me, then duck her head in shame. I felt sort of horrible about it, so I gave her a milk-bone when we got back to the house, and all was forgiven.

That evening, I was driving home from work, talking on my cell phone to my dad about how to post pictures of the used golf clubs that he wants to sell on eBay. (Yes, I talk and drive. I am that girl. Sorry if I accidentally cut you off. Feel free to flip the bird at me, I probably won’t notice since I’m too busy chatting away.) My other line beeped, and I saw that it was Kris, so I told my dad that I’d call him back. Kris said she couldn’t unlock the front door. She unlocked the deadbolt, but the doorknob itself was locked, and she didn’t have a key for that. Problem? Neither do I! We never lock the doorknob (hi, potential burglars!). It’s just a simple push-and-twist lock, it seems pretty useless, so we only use the deadbolt. Our housekeeper came yesterday, so she must’ve locked it on her way out. It’s probably my fault for not explaining exactly how to lock up when she was done, but the woman barely understands English, so I just never bothered. (I’m going to put some duct tape over the lock so it won’t happen again.)

Ok, so. Locked out. Fun! The only person who might have had a key for the bottom lock would be Dave – and oh, did I mention that he’s in Oregon? I stopped at the store on my way home and bought bobby pins, to see if I could pop the lock that way. I’ve accidentally locked the push-button lock on my bedroom door before, and I used a hairpin to unlock that, so I figured this couldn’t be too different. HA! I was wrong. Meanwhile, Lucky had her nose pressed against the window, anxiously waiting for us to get in, so we could take her outside to pee. Poor dog.

I headed to my neighbor Carol’s house across the street. I asked her what she knew about breaking and entering. She said not much, but she came over with her swiss army knife to see if she could do it. Her fifteen year-old daughter was with her, going, “Um, mom? If you really manage to pick that lock, I’m going to have a whooole lot of questions to ask you…”

Carol couldn’t pick the lock. I remembered that our bedroom window was unlocked (hi again, burglars!), so I asked her if she had a tall extension ladder. She did. Charlotte (her daughter) went back across the street to get it, and she and Kris held the ladder while I climbed up and into my own bedroom window. The sight of me hauling myself headfirst through a window (I landed in an awkward “oof!” handstand formation on the other side) must’ve been hilarious to any neighbors who happened to see us. Teenie was sitting on the bed, looking at me like, “WTF? You’ve never come in that way before!”

So, yeah. That about sums up my Thursday. I am so ready for the weekend, you cannot even imagine.